Weighed Down
by LacksCreativity
Summary: Throughout history, understanding has been the key failing which causes all conflict. Some philosophers dictate that the next step forward in human evolution is to reach a stage where humankind can share thoughts and ideas without the need for language. A young parahuman triggers with the ability to put that theory to the test, turning Brockton Bay into a live testing ground.
1. Stratosphere 1-1

_Always make them come to you._

I stared down at the mask in my hands. It was simple to look at. Gray metal with red crystal lenses. Designed to wrap around my head and rest on my ears and nose, covering the top of my face while leaving my hair free. Its function was a lot more complex. Its meaning to me was maybe even more so.

When I'd first made it, it had been meant to be most of my costume, paired with a protective vest – red, of course – and a belt to hold my weapons and tools. Simple, easy to get on and off. Something I could wear over street clothes, or even under them. Easy to adapt and add to, but not too hard to replace if I had to ditch it quickly.

 _But if you can't make them come to you, make them wait for you._

My father hadn't approved. He'd lectured me about it being too simple for a leader. Told me how I had to stand out, to both allies and enemies; how I needed to set an example. His advice was never truly a suggestion.

Now my costume wasn't easy to put on or take off. I'd needed a suitcase to carry it around when I wasn't wearing it, and there was no chance I could hide it under street clothes. My vest had been replaced with a breastplate. Aluminum over kevlar, still red. Knife-proof and bullet resistant. A red shirt that buckled all the way up to my chin and matching red pants, silk and leather of the highest quality. The red was broken up by white elbow-length gloves and similar knee-high boots, along with a white belt sporting a holster on each hip for my weapons, yet none of the pouches I had wanted for tools.

 _You're the one in charge, not them. Don't let them forget it._

I'd wanted a taser, or even a PRT stunner if I could get one. I didn't have either. Instead he'd given me a submachine gun and an ornate axe. I'd modified them, but neither was anything resembling non-lethal. My father had been adamant When I had to intervene directly, people couldn't expect to get away unharmed. Statements had to be made, after all.

I'd cheated a bit there. Added an electrifying component to the grapple launcher that rested under the glove on my right wrist.

 _Be the center of attention, even when you're not in the room._

If that had been all, just fancier clothes and some weapons I didn't want to use, it would have been fine. But apparently the costume had still been lacking sufficient flair. Flair that had come in the form of a short cape, black, with a mantle that draped over my shoulder and down my chest. Worse, it had gold braid at the shoulders and a gold pattern, like stylized wings, on the front.

But even that hadn't been enough...

I stifled a sigh. The costume wasn't the problem. Thinking about it on its own, rather than something I was actually wearing, it even looked good. The designers had been paid enough to make sure it was stylish, if overdone.

 _You're the person everybody looks to. Someone they can't ignore._

No, the costume was just a distraction. Something to brood on so I didn't have to think about where I was, or what I was about to do. It was stupid. Childish. I couldn't afford that. Not anymore.

I lifted my mask up and slid it on, the world going dark before taking on a red tint, and even that faded as the HUD powered up, dispelling the gloom of the empty room I was standing in. I blinked a few times to make sure everything was working, then reached into the nearly empty suitcase and pulled out the final piece of my costume. A bucket helmet, painted as white as my gloves and boots, with a flared rim around the back to protect my neck, and a pair of spikes – almost horns – projecting up the front. I wanted to question the connotation, given the gangs in the city, but the more things to distance me, the better. It slid on over my mask, sitting perfectly in place.

 _Confidence is more than just appearance. More than just attention. It's who you are. Live it._

My hands fell to my sides and I tried to suppress my disappointment.

I'd hoped that, with the costume on, armed and equipped with tinkertech of my own design, I'd feel different. More like the leader of a team of parahumans.

I didn't. I just felt like me, but wearing a silly costume.

I took one last look around the room, not quite sure what I was looking for. Whatever it was, I didn't find it amid the dusty shelves and cleaning supplies.

Which, unfortunately, left me nothing else to do. I squared my shoulders and stood up straight, sticking my chest out slightly. I could almost feel my father's hands, pushing and pulling, molding my posture into something commanding.

I marched over to the door, heels clicking against the bare concrete, and hauled it open, stepping out into the alley I'd left not five minutes ago. Four heads turned my way, four sets of eyes hidden by masks and hoods, and the hushed conversations I'd barely noticed stopped dead.

"Took you long enough," Garrison—Turismo, now that he was in costume—said. He was nervous too. Father's lessons meant I could practically smell it. But it was a different kind of nervous, an electric anticipation for the violence mixed a fear of the unfamiliar. A fear for the combat he'd never been a part of till now.

I glanced at him without answering. It was the first time I'd seen the team all together, all in costume. His was a lot like mine, but with purple instead of red, and without the weapons. He didn't need them. Beside him, leaning up against the brick wall of the alley, was Rune. Her costume I'd seen before, a few times, before she'd joined the team. A blue robe with a peaked hood and silver-embroidered runes tracing the edges of the hood and sleeves. A simple costume that hid various tricks underneath.

On the other side of the alley Chariot and Vasistha stood, almost in opposition to the others. A bit worrying, though not remotely surprising. Also unsurprisingly, their costumes were of a lower quality. Chariot's was clearly homemade, bits and pieces of mechanical skeleton imposed over denim overalls and a puffy jacket, with a simple domino mask over his eyes and a bandana over his mouth. The only things he had that was impressive were his boots. Sleek metal things with vents on the calves and wheels at his heels. Vasistha, for her part, had a costume a bit like Rune's. A yellow, hooded robe. But where Rune's was obviously made of thick cloth, Vasistha's almost floated, barely opaque. Neither her costume nor Chariot's did a thing to hide skin that was too dark to be tanned, which went a good ways in explaining why the two pairs were standing so far from each other.

I barely held in yet another sigh. Their costumes weren't the problem any more than mine was. I just had no idea how to address the _actual_ problems, or any way to really find out. Staring at them, searching for details I wasn't even sure how to process, was just another way of trying to put off the inevitable.

"So how is it, Red? Do we pass?" Turismo asked.

Again I didn't answer. I just started walking, boots splashing against the pooled autumn rain, then held up a hand and crooked my fingers. "Come on."

A little to my surprise, they did. Rune and Turismo fell in on my right, while Chariot and Vasistha fell in on my left. We left the alley almost in formation, emerging into an empty street lit only by streetlamps under a pitch-black, cloudy sky.

"Are they still there?" I asked.

"They are," Vasistha answered. Her voice was quiet but steady, and she sounded even younger than she looked, which said a lot.

"In costume?"

"Yes."

"Any sign they know we're coming?"

"No," she said, then paused. "Not that I can tell."

"That's fine," I said, looking at her over my shoulder. Outside the protection of the alley, the wind was bitter, and she had her arms wrapped around herself. "You could have brought a coat," I told her, and my eyes shifted down to her slippered feet. "Or at least some shoes."

"I'm fine," she said.

I left it at that. Anything more risked giving the wrong impression to the others.

"So what's the plan?" Chariot asked. I could hear him shifting his feet in the snow, moving side to side, clearly eager to go ahead. Probably just as eager to get things over with. Different from me. Different from Turismo, too. I'd have been happy to put things off as long as possible, if that was an option.

"I'll go in first," I said, forcing myself to maintain my posture, to speak clearly. "Try talking. Give them a chance, even if we all know they won't take it. The rest of you wait for my signal. When I give it, come in swinging."

"That's all?" Rune asked.

Chariot answered before I could. "I like it," he said. "Simple and direct."

"I guess," Rune said, clearly skeptical. I felt her glance at me, but she didn't say any more. The mood didn't allow it.

Thankfully there wasn't enough time for things to get awkward. We'd arrived at our target too quickly. That had always been part of the plan. Between the cold, the hour, and the part of the city we were in, I hadn't wanted to walk a long way in costume. Too much risk of being seen.

"Get set up, but stay out of sight," I said. "This isn't the Docks. All it takes is one person making a call and we'll have the heroes and the PRT on us in no time."

I waited for a moment, but nobody said anything.

I nodded, mostly to myself, and stepped forward, toward our target. Behind me I could hear the others shuffling around, finding places they could wait without being seen.

Most of the time, thinking of the sort of places a pair of villains might call a lair, I thought of old factories or warehouses. Or tenements, maybe, abandoned for long enough that nobody even knew who owned them anymore. Sometimes shacks by the trainyard, or parking lots that hadn't seen a car in years.

But then, when I – when most people – thought of villains in Brockton Bay, I thought of the bad part of town, north of the city center, not the suburbs south of it. And for the most part that was right. But anywhere there was money to be made, one way or another villains would find their way in.

Even if that meant holing up in an auto body shop next door to a post office.

I went in the front door, setting the bell jingling, and once again cutting off a conversation before I had time to hear what it was about. I could have snuck around the back, or the side. Picked a lock, gone in stealthily. But image so happened to be the word of the day.

I found them in the back, in the garage. Two men in costume, like I was, though theirs were of even lower quality than Chariot's or Vasistha's. Just masks and street clothes. Not that different from what I'd originally envisioned for myself.

Maybe my father had a point.

"Who the hell are you?" one of them asked, his voice a growl, his mouth twisted in obvious anger and confusion. His mask was a bunch of little spears and shields welded together, covering most of his face and mixing into his receding hairline. As he spoke, he stepped to the side and yanked a metal-plated cloak off a piece of machinery, spinning it onto his shoulders. So, a little better than a mask and street clothes.

"You would be Sixer," I said, then turned to his companion, who was inching his way toward the wall, where a crowbar rested amidst some other tools. "And you would be Stray."

"Yeah, but that doesn't tell us who the fuck you are," Stray said. His mask was full-face, metal like his companions, and looked like a snarling wolf. Not the best look in a town where Hookwolf was such a big name.

"We'll get to me in a minute," I said. "I was hoping we could talk."

That calmed them down a bit, if not much. Stray stopped his move for the weapon, and Sixer relaxed his stance a bit, focusing on getting his cloak bucked up around his shoulders. "You think we're gonna talk with someone who doesn't even give his fucking name?" Stray asked.

I drew my axe, and they both tensed up again, especially when I flicked a switch on the handle and the blade began to glow, quickly brightening to a cherry red and giving off waves of heat that were visible even in the dim light of the garage.

"I'll admit that I may have been a bit rude, asking to talk business before I introduced myself," I said. "You can call me the Red Comet, and I'm here to discuss your eviction."

In a TV show, that would have been when the fight started. But most people aren't dumb enough to just charge someone the moment a threat is made, at least partly because most people aren't dumb enough to make a threat if they don't think they can back it up. So instead of getting indignant and attacking me, Sixer just stepped forward, glancing around warily and covering Stray while he scooped up the crowbar.

"You a Ward?" Sixer asked, looking me up and down, taking in the quality of my costume. "No. Empire?"

"We're Solomon," I said. "We're new, and this is where I've decided we'll start our expansion."

"Right," Sixer said. "I get it. We're the big guns around here, so if you take us out, you look good and nobody wants to fuck with you. Or we leave voluntarily and it looks like you scared us off, and nobody wants to fuck with you."

I had to stop myself from chewing on my lip with an effort of will. He wasn't wrong. That was the plan, more or less. I could have added that the two of them were only 'big guns' because only capes that couldn't make it settled for working the south end. They were the very definition of 'big fish in a small pond'. But I didn't think that would go over very well.

Of course, the fact that he'd just guessed the entire plan left me a bit unsure of how to proceed. I couldn't back down, or banter, or bargain. All of that would make me look weak, which I couldn't afford. My father had made that more than clear, as well as intimately detailing the penalties I'd suffer for failing here.

Not that he'd punish me himself. That wasn't his style. But playing the villain game came with heavy costs. Even if you won.

"So, what's it going to be?" I asked into the silence my indecision had caused. "Go peacefully, or stay and fight?"

"Stay and fight," Stray spat, raising the crowbar in both hands.

"Stay and fight," Sixer agreed. He hooked his thumbs into his best and turned to Stray for a moment. They nodded to each other. "Not like we have much choice. We're muscle. If we turn tail and run, we'll never get a job again."

I inclined my head to him, halfway between a nod and a salute. "I expected as much."

"I'm sure you did," Sixer said. He stepped to the side, moving around a workbench scattered with tools, while Stray moved the opposite direction, ducking under a pickup truck that was raised halfway to the ceiling, moving to flank me.

It was all a ruse, of course. Neither of their powers cared where they were relative to me. Another thing my father had drilled into me. Because of that, I also knew that they needed a bit of time at the start of a fight. Part of the reason I'd been willing to go in alone.

The other part was Vasistha.

 _Now!_ I thought, as loudly as I could.

Chariot was the first one in, as expected. He came in through the same door I had, the wheels on his boots squealing and the vents blasting superheated air out behind him, and rushed toward Stray, zig-zagging around the scattered equipment and vaulting over a workbench. He didn't hit him. Without heavier armor he'd have done as much damage to himself as to Stray. Instead he tossed a handful of balls at him that whirred and spun, unspooling into half a dozen bolas, tangling him up.

Rune's entrance was, if anything, even more dramatic. A huge metal dumpster crashed through the roof, blue runes still flashing and fading on its surface. Debris rained down along with it, along with torrents of dust that showered down and spread around the room, like an inverted mushroom cloud. The impact almost knocked me from my feet, and did send Chariot stumbling. At the speed he was going, a fall could have been bad.

In the dumpster's wake, other objects entered, floating at more reasonable speeds. A few manhole covers, An old metal mailbox, and a handful of wooden pallets, the latter of which had Rune, Turismo, and Vasistha crouched atop them.

As soon as they were in, Rune hopped off her pallet onto the raised car and crouched down, tracing her runes on it. Vasistha joined her just as it started to rock on the raised jack, peering down at the fight with wide eyes.

Turismo, for his part, jumped the eight feet to the ground, landing in front of Sixer as the villain was still reeling from the dumpster's impact, one hand over his mouth to ward away the dust.

"Stupid choice," Turismo shouted, his face manic with a blend of emotions I couldn't hope to decipher, advancing with his hands held open, palms up, sparkling sand or dust pooling out of nowhere to fill them and spill down to the floor, letting off the occasional popping spark.

For myself, I took the opportunity to back off and keep my eyes on the two villains. It would have been nice if they took the sudden appearance of so many capes as a reason to surrender, or even just retreat. In either case I'd have happily let them. Unfortunately, for the same reason they'd chosen to fight in the first place, they weren't about to stop now.

Worse, neither of their powers were the type that had trouble dealing with multiple opponents.

Long pikes of concrete thrust up out of the floor between Sixer and Turismo. Or rather, the floor reshaped itself into spears. Sixer's power, to create rough weapon-shaped constructs out of the material around him. If that was all it would have been bad enough. Shakers were always a pain, changing the battlefield to suit themselves and hinder their enemies. But Sixer went further, the shafts pulling free of the floor even as others grew, moving with surprising speed to point themselves at Turismo and Chariot.

Did that mean something? The fact that he didn't target either of the girls?

The spears moved to strike, stabbing forward and pulling back. They weren't very coordinated, but the number of them was still increasing, and eventually that wouldn't matter. Chariot dodged with ease, while Turismo was slower, clumsy, staring with an offended expression at the villain who was obviously trying to kill him.

"Mutt!" Turismo shouted, tossing a handful of his sparkling dust at Sixer. It moved heavily rather than float in the air, more like gravel or iron filings than flour, coating the villain and the area around him. Immediately the number of sparks increased, arcing over Sixer and drawing a teeth-clenched groan from the man, but the spears didn't stop.

Worse, Stray wasn't out of the game, and even though he wasn't having any trouble dodging the spears, Chariot was still too distracted to do anything about him. The wolf-masked villain had given up struggling against the bolas – which hadn't stopped at wrapping him up, I saw. They'd moved on to rolling around him, wrapping their wires around everything they could – and was pressing his hands to the floor.

 _Stray's making his move!_ I shouted in my head, and Vasistha jerked, looking around wildly before her eyes settled on the bound villain. She tugged at Rune's sleeve, gesturing, and Rune stopped her work for a moment, the car going still.

"Hairy fucking balls," she spat, gesturing sharply. Two of the pallets moved toward Stray, falling on top of him one after another, but they weren't quick enough to stop him.

More shapes jerked and tore their way free of the floor. Not spears this time. Instead, canine shapes made of rebar and concrete clambered out, shaking off the rubble of their birth before looking around, stone tongues hanging from their mouths.

Two villains with very similar but very different powers. I would have been tempted to guess they were related, but apparently that wasn't the case. Neither was from Brockton Bay, and they apparently hadn't met each other before arriving in the city.

 _Doesn't matter,_ I chided myself. _Think later. Fight now._

Stray's constructs weren't strong, but like Sixer's weapons, their numbers weren't limited. In Stray's case the only actual limit was time, and the fact that once his dogs were made he had no control over them. Still, dozens of hundred-pound stone dogs were troublesome whether or not they obeyed orders.

Rune dropped one of the manhole covers, and it hit a dog edge-on, shattering the thing, but more were emerging. Some rushed into the room while others chewed at the wires binding Stray.

Seeing the fight really get going, my instincts told me to step in and help, while my father's advice told me to wait. Neither Stray nor Sixer seemed intent on me, instead focusing on the more obvious threats of Chariot and Turismo. It would be easy to let things progress, maybe relay some information via Vasistha's power, and only engage personally if there was a direct need. Maybe if someone got hurt, or if Sixer and Stray's constructs got too numerous.

A stone dog stalked toward me, growling silently as I stood there, indecisive. I swiped at it with my axe, the superheated blade flashing as it carved through its neck. It dropped, crumbling apart, and I took a step back, looking around.

Rune's dumpster had caused a lot of chaos with its entrance, but its actual effect had been minor, beyond creating an entrance. The garage wasn't that big, and it was fairly crowded between the cars, equipment, and more than half a dozen parahumans, which had served us well at first, but that tide was turning now. Rune was running out of projectiles, each object she dropped staying where it was rather than rising up again, while Sixer and Stray's creations were just multiplying.

Chariot dodged a spear, gave a rocket-assisted kick to one of the dogs, and hopped on top of a concrete shield – another of Sixer's creations – only to hop back off right away as yet more dogs moved in on him. Turismo was doing better, trading attacks with Sixer himself, throwing handfuls of his heavy, sparkling dust at the villain, who dodged around and brushed it off himself as quickly as he could. He still had some on him, conducting electricity and causing him to spasm and stagger almost randomly, but not enough to incapacitate him just yet. More, the amount of dust in the area was building up, more and more electricity crackling across the floor, preventing Turismo from closing in to finish him off.

If we had one trump card here, it was Rune. If she could get the car under her power, we'd have something that could finish the fight in one shot, one way or another. I'd been hoping she'd work quicker, but her power took time to use, and I was coming to think we didn't have enough of it.

What decided me was Stray. He stood up, his clothes tattered, bleeding from cuts and scrapes where his uncontrolled creations had been less than gentle in freeing him, and picked up his crowbar again, heading for Turismo's back.

I could have waited, or transmitted an order through Vasistha. I didn't. It would have been smart, the course my father would have advised, but I didn't. Instead I drew my gun, aimed at one of Stray's creations, and fired.

The sound wasn't that loud. I'd modified the gun after my father had given it to me. Partly because I had no idea how to maintain or use regular guns, as opposed to the devices I made personally. Partly for other reasons. When a cape draws a gun, it says something. Everyone in the fight knows the stakes just got raised, and that it was time to play for keeps. Forget that nine out of ten powers were massively more deadly than a gun, forget that any random parahuman would beat a person with a gun nine times out of ten, none of that mattered. People didn't choose their powers, had no control over what they could do. A gun was different. Using a gun said that you'd gone that extra mile, gone out of your way to carry something that could kill.

That wasn't an image I wanted to project.

So when I fired my gun, a spray of bullets tearing into one of the stone dogs, breaking off a limb and tossing it aside to crumble into pieces on the floor, it didn't let out the rattling boom of automatic gunfire. Instead there was an almost mechanical whirring, and a clacking rattle like a dozen people smacking metal bars against a wooden log.

It still got attention. Stray stopped his advance to stare at me for a moment as I started methodically gunning down his creations. Then he swore, ducking down behind one of Sixer's shields and working to create more. But it was a less drastic response than if the gun had been stock. Almost funny in a way, since nothing I'd done had made the gun any less powerful. The opposite, if anything. For one thing, I'd given it a drum magazine on the top that held a hundred bullets, more than five times its original capacity.

It helped that I wasn't actually shooting it at anyone, but even so a tinkertech gun just _felt_ different than a real one.

Still, one gun with a limited ammo capacity – no matter how high – wasn't going to win the fight. If nothing else, now that he knew I had the gun Sixer's shields would almost certainly hold up long enough to take everything I was able to give, at which point we'd be back where we started.

"Turismo!" I shouted between short bursts of fire. "Light the place up! Rune, make us an exit!"

"Fuckers!" Sixer shouted, apparently twigging to my plan. He shifted his focus to me, most of the spears attacking Chariot and Turismo turning in my direction, his shields converging to cover him as he advanced.

That was fine. That was what I wanted.

A dozen stone spears darted in my direction, probing and stabbing, and I moved to welcome them. I opened my eyes and mind wide, and I could feel my mask heat up as it activated.

The world around me didn't slow down. I didn't gain super speed. In any way I could quantify, everything stayed exactly the same. But at the same time I could feel my perception expanding, refracting out from the mechanism in my mask, doing... whatever it was it did.

I side-stepped a spear, chopping it out of the air with my axe. It fell in two pieces, clattering to the floor and didn't rise again. Another followed, and another. I moved forward, feet always placed where they needed to be, every swing timed just right, my whole body moving with a grace that wasn't really mine.

Sixer's power gave him decent control of the weapons he made, but it had two flaws. First, it took concentration. They didn't act on their own, relying on his mental commands. Which meant they had no better reflexes than he did. Second, he needed line of sight. Not that he couldn't act without it, but if he did he was swinging blind. I raised my gun in his direction, controlled bursts of two or three bullets picking his spears out of the air, or breaking them while they were still rising out of the ground, and he reflexively ducked back behind his shields, circular or kite-shaped defenses closing in tight around him, more of them moving to cover Stray.

Of course, that didn't mean the pressure was off. Just that it was less directed. Instead of careful stabs, the spears started to spin, twirling around as they searched for targets. Plus, Stray wasn't out of the picture either, and more of his dogs started to emerge from behind the shielded area he occupied, requiring me to switch to gunning them down again, keeping their numbers low.

Of course, my team hadn't been idle while I worked. Rune finally had the car moving, if slowly, about a quarter of its exterior covering in glowing blue shapes in all kinds of patterns. Turismo had been even more busy, if anything, spreading his dust all over the floor. As it came into contact with more wires, machines, and electronics, the electricity built up higher, crackling dangerously and lending a flickering blue light to the room. Chariot was already backing away from it, and both Rune and Vasistha were eyeing it warily.

Turismo, for his part, just grinned as he tossed handful after handful all over the room, uncaring of the effect it was having.

"I'd suggest you get out while you can!" I shouted. "It's going to get a bit hot in here!"

"Son of a bitch!" Sixer's shout was nearly drowned out as Rune smashed the car into one of the metal roll-up doors of the garage. It shrieked as it was torn from its tracks, then fell outward, smashing down on the asphalt of the parking lot.

As soon as the door was down, Chariot zipped out, gracefully hopping over the door and spinning around, watching the exit with wide, attentive eyes. Sixer and Stray followed him just a bit slower, and with a lot less grace, doing their best to stay covered and out of my line of sight.

I followed more slowly, gunning down the last of the dogs as I went. When I reached Turismo, I put a hand on his shoulder for a moment, and he fell in behind me. We left together, stepping around the fallen door, out into the cold dark of the night.

More by coincidence than anything else, Sixer and Stray had ended up surrounded. Rune and Vasistha on their floating car on one side, Chariot on another, and now Turismo and I coming from behind. They hunkered down behind their shields, but there weren't enough to cover all angles, and I could see them glaring out from behind them.

For a moment, nothing happened.

"I think we all know you can't win this," I said into the silence.

"Yeah, well, don't expect us to make it easy for you, asshole," Stray spat, straightening up slightly to deliver the insult face to face.

I raised my arm, and a small metal plug shot out from a slit in my glove, trailing a thin wire behind it. The prongs caught Stray on the shoulder, electricity arcing down the wire and sending him to the ground in convulsions.

I only left him like that for an instant before deactivating the taser. The wire retracted, spooling back into its housing. The plug came last, hitting my forearm with enough force that I had to stagger back half a step.

"Bitch, son of a bitch," Stray groaned.

"I know you can make more of your dogs," I told him, then turned to Sixer. "And you can make more weapons. Trust me when I say it's not worth it. You're outnumbered five to two, and none of us have come close to going all out yet." I pointed over my shoulder, back into the garage. Turismo's dust was arcing bright enough that my shadow was easily visible on the ground in front of me. "Do you want to see what we can do if we try?"

Sixer glared at me, breathing heavily, face screwed up in anger and possibly fear.

"You've got about ten seconds," I told him. "Then we drop a car on you, for starters."

He turned aside and spit onto the ground. "Fucking Protectorate's probably on the way anyway."

"Tell yourself that if you want, man," Turismo said.

"Yeah," Rune said from atop her mount, voice almost gloating. "Whatever helps your asses feel less thoroughly fucked."

"Enough," I said, doing my best to keep my voice level. "Just go, and don't come back. Find somewhere else, because this territory is ours now. I'd suggest somewhere far away, too."

If I expected some kind of parting remake, I didn't get it. Sixer tapped Stray on the shoulder, and they turned in unison and took off, the shields moving to cover their retreat.

I waited for a minute, then turned to Vasistha. "Are they really leaving?"

"They are," she said. Now that the fight was over she was crouched down on top of the car, shivering, her arms wrapped around her.

"Good," I said. "Rune, can you land that thing?"

"Yeah, why?" she asked, as the car moved to settle down on the ground.

"They were right about the Protectorate," I said, walking over to the car. "They'll be on the way soon, if they aren't already." I slashed my axe across the door handle, the blade leaving a glowing rent in that dripped molten metal onto the ground, and smelled like burnt paint. The door swung open. "We need a way out, and I figure a flying car's as good as anything."

"Sure," she said, hopping down. "I can do that." She walked around the car, tracing more runes on it as she went, the old ones slowly fading away even as the new ones glowed brightly.

"It okay if I make my own way?" I turned to see Chariot standing nearby, still shifting nervously, gliding back and forth. "Figure I'm quicker on my own."

"It's fine," I said. "Just be at the hideout tomorrow. I want to discuss a few things."

"No problem," he said, flashing me a momentary smile. Then he was off, moving far more quickly over the open ground than he had inside.

A good first impression. It was a start.

Rune finished her work quickly, and we all piled into the car. Vasistha gave me a grateful smile as she took her place in the back seat. Rune took the driver's seat, I took the passenger's seat, and Turismo grumbled a bit as he slid in beside Vasistha. Then we took off, the car wobbling slightly as it gained height and somewhat limited speed.

"So, that went pretty well," Turismo said, once we were moving.

"It went alright," I said. "It could have gone better."

"You think so?" he asked.

"I do," I said. "For one thing, we didn't have time to search for any money before we left."

"Oh," he said, sounding surprised. "Well shit. I forgot all about that."

"Yeah, me too," Rune said. "Fuck. _Fuck_. We could have used the money!"

"If they had it there, anyway," I said. "We still have some options."

"I guess we could go back, yeah," Rune said, turning to look at Turismo. "How long's your shit last, anyway?"

He shrugged. "Until someone cleans it up, I guess. It's pretty permanent."

"Oh," Rune said, turning to look back out the windshield. Not that there was that much to see, given our elevation and the dark of the night. At this point I figured she was mostly navigating by the light of downtown, off to the north. "Well shit."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "The police and PRT will be there anyway, by tomorrow. If there's anything there, I imagine they'll take it as evidence."

"Damn," Turismo said. "Sorry man, I wasn't thinking."

"Don't worry about it," I told him. "It was my call. I knew this would happen when I ordered you to go wild. I figured it was more important to get a win without any of us getting hurt."

"Yeah, that's fair," he said. "Still, would have been nice to make some bank out of this."

"Yeah," Rune agreed. "Still, we got the territory now. Shouldn't be hard to get some pushers on the streets or something."

"I doubt Chariot would like that," I said.

"So?" Rune asked. "Who cares about him? He can either accept it or fuck off."

"We're not going to be selling drugs," I said.

"So, what? Escorts?" Turismo suggested. "I figure my uncle could get us set up, for a percentage."

"No," Vasistha said.

"Who asked—" Turismo started, sneering.

"No," she repeated, stronger, glaring at him.

"Okay, jeez. Whatever."

"Let me worry about money," I said. "I'll figure something out."

"Yeah, sure thing man," Turismo said, still eyeing Vasistha warily. "Whatever you say."

There was a moment of awkward silence that I had no idea how to break.

"Uh, so, where's everyone want to be dropped off?" Rune asked.

* * *

I stumbled home half an hour late, still in my costume. Rune had dropped me off on the roof of my apartment building, and for a lot of reasons I hadn't worried as I'd walked through the halls. Nobody here would say anything to the police, let alone the PRT.

It took a few tries with my key to get the door open. It was a bit funny. It wasn't that late, and the fight hadn't been too hard. I'd stayed up way later watching TV and playing games, and I'd worked a _lot_ harder over the last few months, getting in shape. But I was still more tired than I could remember being. Maybe because of adrenaline, or stress, or something else. I didn't know. I just wanted to collapse into bed and sleep for a week.

Of course, I knew I wouldn't get what I wanted. That was just the way my life was.

So it really wasn't any kind of surprise when I emerged into the living room to see my father sitting on the couch, legs crossed casually, wearing his full armor, his jagged crown of blades standing tall.

He sat up and spread his arms as I walked in. "Theo, my boy!" Kaiser said, voice warm and welcoming. "Tell me, how did your first fight go?"


	2. Stratosphere 1-2

I walked through the halls half aware and half awake, letting the flow of the students around me guide me to the lunch room. I'd always liked that about school, how easy it was to fit in, how easy it was to become a face in the crowd. Another backpack, another pair of shoes, another face without a name attached to it.

My father had kept me awake long after I'd gotten home discussing my performance at the garage. To be honest, it was mostly just a laundry list of mistakes. What I should have done different, or should have done better. _Use compliments sparingly, so that they pay attention to your every word_. Funny, how he could teach me exactly what he was doing and still have me fall for every word of it.

The conversation did eventually move on to more familiar ground, though. Tinker talk. What things I could build to make things go better for me in the future. We talked about it for a bit, but the answer we eventually came to was armor. Sixer and Stray weren't particularly hard hitters, but they were still pretty strong compared to their competitors. At any point a lucky hit could have ruined me. If I could make something to protect me from their attacks, I would be effectively set to deal with anyone from the south end.

There was a complication to that, however: armor wasn't really something I'd tried working with before. I didn't think it would be out of my reach to copy Chariot's exoskeleton design and add plating to it, but it was hard to know for sure given I didn't even know my reach to begin with. It was a shame that all of the drafts I made during my morning classes weren't likely to be used. It almost made it seem worth it to pay attention to the teachers. Almost.

Eventually the flow of students drew me toward my goal. The lunch room. At Arcadia it was usually pretty empty. As it turned out, all of the school funding in the world wasn't enough for them to have a cafeteria worth a damn, so most kids just brought their own lunches or went off of the property to a fast-food place. As for myself, I brought my own lunch; eating healthy would be important from now on and I couldn't afford to slack. Getting enough calories to build muscle was also an issue, yet another thing my father was happy to lecture me about.

Food aside, like most students at Arcadia I tended to enjoy lunch more for the conversation than anything else. Not that I had a huge amount of options in that sphere. Just one, really. I'd known Lucas for years now. I met him when I was a little kid in a club I didn't really want to think about, then again in middle school. We'd been friends ever since, and shared most of our interests. Or we had, before I got my power. We didn't have any classes together this semester, and it was hard for us to hang out after school, so lunch was really the only time we talked these days.

Not that we had much to talk about. I didn't have the time to keep up with the newest episodes of Mechanical Soldier, and something told me that he didn't have much constructive input on the construction of a telepathically-controlled heated whip.

"Hey, Theo!"

I turned, a sinking feeling in my stomach that I thought couldn't have sunk any lower.

"Garrison," I said.

A slim, good-looking guy broke away from the trio of girls he was talking to and walked over to me. He was wearing pretty formal clothes, for high school anyway. A white button-up shirt and jeans, with a red leather belt and black belt buckle. His brown hair was medium length, sweeping across one side of his forehead in a style that I assumed was fashionable.

I'd seen him around a few times over the years, but these days I was more familiar with him in costume.

"Figured we could eat lunch together," he said, then leaned in with a crooked grin and put a hand across my shoulder. "Team building exercise, you know?"

I considered just telling him to go sit somewhere else. It would have been easy. Be polite, make excuses, don't let him think he was the reason. But no, it was too much risk for not enough payoff.

I might not have to like Garrison, but Turismo was important. An asset.

I made my way over to Lucas and took my seat, signalling for Garrison to follow.

The first thing most people noticed about Lucas when meeting him was his eyes, which due to glasses thicker than some watch faces gave the impression of taking up most of the real estate on his face. The next thing that people tended to notice was his size. Despite being a few inches shorter than me he was far wider, even before my training.

The first thing Garrison noticed was neither of these things.

Garrison, to both his credit and my relief, elected not to say anything, though a quick glance at Lucas' features told me that he got the whole story. He sat, face neutral, looking between us but not saying anything.

Damage control. Change the subject. "Hey Lucas, did you see the new-"

"Sorry Theo, I, uh, gotta go. I owe Ms. Roberts an assignment." And just like that he was off, faster than I think I'd ever seen him move before.

I couldn't be mad at Lucas for that, but it stung. It stung to know that he thought I betrayed his trust. It stung that he wasn't wrong.

In a lot of ways I was envious of Lucas. He had the ability to get up and walk away, to distance himself from the shitshow that was going on around him. It was petty, but I couldn't imagine him in my shoes.

"Right, well, whatever. So Theo where are-"

"Garrison just-" Deep breaths. Calm. "Hey, Garrison, you have a car right?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. What's up boss?" He was off his footing. Not what I intended, but it worked.

"Our new base is set up. I was hoping you could give me a ride to the Falmel,"

"The Falm- Donnie's place? He agreed to that?"

I nodded. "I told Layla and Cassie about it yesterday, after we dropped you off. E-mailed Trevor this morning."

"Right. Does Cass need a lift too?"

"No, her school is in the area anyway."

"Right. Got it."

* * *

The rest of school passed by mostly uneventfully, which may or may not have been a product of me not paying enough attention to know if any events had happened to begin with.

Finding Garrison's car was, for a lot of reasons, easier than I thought it would be. Arcadia may have been in one of the better areas in the city, but the few students who did drive still tended to drive something more on the tame side of things. Garrison clearly wasn't too concerned about blending in.

The car easily predated Scion. It was probably from the early 70's if I had to guess. The entire thing was done in a deep reflective purple, accented by gold-painted rims on the tires. The same color as his cape costume, I couldn't help noting. This was, of course, accompanied by a supercharger protruding from the hood. It reminded me a bit of my father, lots of money spent on glam but with the end result accomplishing nothing other than looking like a travesty.

The other reason it was easy to find is that he was using his speaker system to the fullest extent to inform the entire parking lot that Cletus Nephewson really, really liked his tractor, his wife, and his dog.

I got into his car and gestured at the sound control on the dash; I didn't think it worth while to even try talking over his music. Thankfully he complied and turned it down, before pulling out of the parking lot.

"What, you ain't much of a country guy?"

My father had warned against fraternizing too much with the men — _the second they start seeing you as one of them is the second they stop respecting you as a leader_ — but I didn't put too much stock in that. Being a cape might be dangerous, but the Empire's turnover rate was too high for that to be everything.

"No," I admitted "I like rock, mostly. The older stuff. I saw Queen live this summer, actually, for my birthday."

"Ain't their lead singer a queer? Hell, are any of them even alive?" The bluntness of the question caught me a bit off guard. I'd expected that kind of thing from Cassie, but I was expecting Garrison to understand that all that stuff was just a way to control the masses. A performance gimmick.

I guess I wanted him to be a bit more like me.

"Sure, but what do I care?" I said. "My father has enough Hendrix albums to stack them up and use them as a chair. The music's good. And yeah, they're all still alive."

"Fair enough," he conceded. "Now that I think about it, Donnie's the same way"

"Donnie. Is that Panzermensch or Templar?"

"Panzermensch. Templar is Gerald."

Panzermensch was a cape I was only somewhat familiar with. He was a borderline invincible power nullifier from down south who, as it so happened, moved up here to run a restaurant with his family. I could respect that, though there was something I had wanted to ask.

"So what's up with your family's powers anyways?"

"Hm?" Garrison's brow scrunched up in confusion.

I elaborated "Well, families are supposed to all be thematic, right? You have your conductive powder, Donnie's invincible, Gerald drops hunks of fire from nowhere, your sister had that weird beam thing, and I'm not even sure what your other brother does. And that all came from, what, a Master power?"

Garrison just shrugged, though I could tell that my question annoyed him a little. Powers were always a bad topic, maybe I should have known better.

"Well, what about you and your parents?" he asked. "Your dad makes metal, and your mom was what, a giant?"

"Sure, but I had to use a lot of rare metals to make my mask. Same with my axe."

"And the giant thing?"

"Well... you got me there, I guess."

The conversation steered away from powers, and we just kind of kept on talking about whatever until Garrison pulled into the parking lot of the Falmel.

Beachfront property wasn't quite the commodity in Brockton Bay that it was in most cities. Not in the south end, anyway. With the Boardwalk stretching further north every year, that was where most of the money went, and the beaches to the south were generally neglected. Not that they were empty, of course. Far from it, they were the most popular place in the city to actually swim, for locals anyway. It was just that too many people had houses along the water, and too few were willing to sell, for it to be profitable to develop the area.

Some people used that, though, and while there weren't any big tourist attractions in the area, there were tons of smaller, family-owned businesses designed to make money from the people in the city, rather than vacuuming it up from tourists.

The Falmel was one of those. An old ship of some kind, moved halfway onto the beach and turned into a restaurant, run by Garrison's family. Not directly connected to the Empire, thankfully, but definitely associated for people who knew enough.

We walked over the sandy parking lot and up the metal gangplank to the deck. It was filled with tables, about half of which were occupied. A metal hatchway led to a space that had been made into an indoor dining area, complete with a bar, and that was where we headed.

Halfway there, though, we were intercepted by a man bigger than any I'd seen before in the flesh. Six foot ten at least, and more than muscular, he had greying hair and an enormous chin, with an equally enormous scar across it.

If he hadn't been dressed in a jolly green suit and sporting a friendly – if toothy – smile, I would have been tempted to turn and head the other direction.

"Gar!" the huge man boomed, stepping forward to engulf Garrison in a hug, lifting him off the ground and causing more than a few patrons to turn their way in curiosity.

Garrison, for his part, took it better than I would have. He just laughed and hugged back.

"Donnie! This is my buddy, Theo. That's for letting us set up shop here, yeah?"

"Not a problem, little man," the man – Donnie, clearly – said, gently lowering Garrison to the ground and stepping to the side, gesturing to a door beside the bar. We headed for it, and he following, turning sideways and bending nearly double to get through the confined space.

"So, you guys are below decks, near the back," Donnie said as soon as we were away from the dining area. A few employees in nautical-themed uniforms glanced at us as we passed, but Donnie paid them no mind, talking freely. "If you get hungry or anything just come out and ask for whatever. It's all on the house. Max paid well enough for that, at least, but there wasn't enough space for a kitchen."

"Thanks," I said. "And it's fine. I saw the plans for this a while ago, and it all looked great. Better than I was expecting."

"Yeah, well, still wish I could have done a bit more," Donnie said, ushering us into the kitchen. We drew more looks, but only for a moment before everyone went back to what they'd been doing. "Place isn't all that big for a five-man team. I should know, I was on one for years."

"It's fine," I said again. "I'm grateful for it."

It was true. What I'd asked for, it wouldn't have been possible in a normal restaurant. Hanging out or trying to tinker in the aisles between shelves of cutlery and boxes of produce wasn't anyone's idea of a good time, let alone anywhere close to stealthy. Thankfully, the Falmel was different. After all, any ship with a deck big enough to act as a patio wasn't going to be lacking in unused space below said deck.

"Well, if you're happy, I'm happy," Donnie said, stepping around us to unlock a metal door. It swung open to reveal a stairway down, and he dropped the key into my hand. "Here you go. If you want anything else, just ask."

"Thanks," I said, pocketing the key. "The others will probably be here soon. Can you show them in when they arrive, or have someone do it?"

"Not a problem," he said, and gave me a mock salute before heading off. I turned and headed through the door.

As we headed down the stairs, the big metal doorway – was there a name for it on a ship? I didn't know – swinging shut behind us, we emerged into a spacious area that had once probably been a hold of some kind. Somewhere to store supplies, or cargo, or whatever it was the tubby ship had been used for before its transformation.

A lot of work had been done since then, though. If nothing else the carpet gave it away.

"Damn, man," Garrison said, looking around. "Not bad. Donnie really outdid himself with this."

I found it pretty hard to disagree with him, though I figured that someone other than Donnie had done the actual work. I knew where the money for it had come from, and my father rarely wanted to do without the very best, whether it be in terms of cars, clothes, or interior design.

Still, it was hard to hold onto any sour feelings about the place when I was actually inside it. Wood-panelled walls – heavily insulated against both heat and sound – were combined with a deep carpet to give the room an inviting feeling. Recessed lighting in the ceiling complimented the decor and helped hide the fact that any windows – portholes? – that might have once lined the walls had been covered up for security. Shelves lined some of the walls, full of books, movies, and video games, interspaced with some tasteful paintings. There were a few chairs and tables scattered around as well, but the focus of the whole place was definitely the center of the room. Three leather couches arranged in a crescent, facing a free-standing entertainment center dominated by a flatscreen TV that had to be wider than I was tall.

One thing that struck me was that there wasn't anything like a planning table. Nowhere to sit to discuss strategy or lay out maps or anything. The meaning for that was obvious, of course. I wasn't meant to work with the team to determine our plans or tactics. That was my job, and theirs was just to follow orders.

Thanks, dad.

"So," Garrison said, hefting his gym bag. "Anywhere around here I can change?"

"Of course," I said, shaking off my unhappiness and lingering exhaustion. I walked across the room, over to the back wall, and pressed my hand against a specific section of the wood panelling. It sunk in a bit, then clicked and swung outward, revealing a similarly decorated hallway, lined with half a dozen doors, and another at the far end.

"There's a room for each of us," I said. "Plus a bathroom. Choose whichever you like. First come first serve."

"Oh man, this is great," Garrison said, grinning as he walked past me, looking at each door in turn. "So cool."

"It's not much," I warned him. "Just a place to store our gear and get changed and stuff. Maybe somewhere to crash if necessary. But that's all. We don't want people coming and going all the time, or someone's bound to notice eventually."

"Right, gotcha, only the most covert of Game Master games for our professional headquarters," he said.

"I'm serious, this isn't a game. You have your own apartment for that kind of stuff."

"Right." At least he had the good grace to look somewhat guilty. Garrison kept poking around until he got to the door at the end of the hall.

"That's the lab," I said. "For tinkering, for Chariot and I."

His hand stopped just before making contact with the handle, then slowly drew back. "Right. So it's a no-go zone, then?"

"More or less," I confirmed, without further explanation. "Let's get changed. It won't be long before the others arrive, and I'd like to get things started as soon as possible."

"Sure," he agreed, heading for the door directly across from the bathroom.

I took one of the rooms at the end of the hall, nearest the lab. As I'd said, it wasn't much. Just a small room – though not a tiny one – with a shelf, a desk, and a bed. No closet, although it did have a dresser. I tossed my backpack onto the bed, then stripped off my school clothes, changing into my regular clothes. A few months ago that would have meant a t-shirt plus jeans if I was going out, or sweatpants at home. Not anymore. Now I had a dress shirt – similar but not identical to the one I wore at school – with slacks, leather shoes, and a leather belt. It could have looked almost professional, if it weren't for the red sweater thrown on top, the words 'The Crimson Lighting in a jagged yellow font on the front.

Once I was dressed I gave my hair a careful brush – no mirror in the room, but I could do without – then rolled up my sleeves the appropriate amount to seem casual and headed out.

Back in the main room, I got a bit of a surprise. Garrison wasn't finished changing yet, but the room wasn't empty. One of the couches was occupied by a small, still form, wearing a yellow robe.

"Vasistha?" I asked. The form didn't move. "Layla? Are you alright?"

Her eyes opened, and she looked up at me. Without her hood up I could see that her eyes were a pale green, despite her dark skin, and without visible pupils: A clear enough mark of being a parahuman that she wouldn't be able to go out in public without sunglasses. Her black hair was parted in the middle and pulled back into two not-quite-buns at the back of her head.

"I'm alright," she said.

"Did you stay here last night?" I asked.

She nodded. "Was I not supposed to?"

"No, it's fine," I said. "Could you not get into your apartment?"

"I didn't go there."

I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. I floundered for a second, debating whether I should ask how she'd got in. I decided against it. "You know you could have used the TV if you wanted, right?"

"I could have," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Right," I said. "I guess with your power you didn't really need to, anyway."

She didn't respond, sitting up instead, still looking at me. Neither of us spoke as she arranged herself into a modest position, legs folded beneath her, hands in her lap.

"Okay," I said, eventually. "Well, the others are going to be here soon, and we'll hold a meeting. Okay?"

She nodded. "I understand."

That seemed to be all she was interested in saying, and I had no idea how to end the conversation, so I just left.

I browsed the shelves for a while. Despite the quantity of entertainment in the hideout, there wasn't much that was interesting to me. I had to wonder if that was just a coincidence, whoever had supplied the place choosing only what was current or popular, or if it was meant to be a message. A subtle way of saying that I shouldn't spend too much time here, or something like that. Thankfully Garrison emerged quickly enough, plopping down onto a couch and flipping on the TV.

The others arrived soon after. Rune was first – Cassie, rather, out of costume – dressed in a school uniform, a white shirt and green vest with a gray skirt. She just waved to me, then Garrison, then walked over to the hidden panel and disappeared, presumably to change.

Had she been here before? I wasn't sure— I hadn't heard anything, though it wouldn't have been surprising. She was related to Garrison and Donnie, if I was remembering family trees right, so it was possible someone in her family had been involved in setting the place up, or had told her about it.

I shook my head. It didn't matter, and I didn't have time to think about it.

The door opened again a few minutes later, and I just barely made out Donnie's enormous frame as he escorted Chariot into the room, both of them looking more than a little uncomfortable. No surprise there, on several levels. Out of costume, Chariot was clearly at least partly black, obvious in features beyond just his skin color. I was glad 'uncomfortable' was as far as it went.

Unfortunately, the discomfort didn't disappear after the door closed.

I looked a bit more closely at Chariot. He was taller than I was, but lanky rather than heavy. His hair was cut close to his scalp, and he had big ears. Enough that he looked maybe a little goofy. His clothes weren't the best, either. Ripped jeans and a t-shirt, despite the backpack slung over one shoulder. He'd clearly come from school like that.

He looked my way, and I forced a smile.

"Chariot," I said, stepping forward and holding out a hand to him. He took it, not returning the smile, and shook it once, hard. "Out of costume, call me Theo."

"Sure. I'm Trevor," he said, his voice as wary as the rest of him. "We going to be long here? I'd like to get home and do some work."

"If you mean tinkering, we've got a lab here," I told him. "Top of the line tools and equipment."

"Huh," he said. "Cool."

Again, that was all I got.

Not surprising, of course.

"Hey, lookin' good, girl!" Garrison said.

I turned around to see him with a hand raised in greeting to Cassie as she re-emerged from the hallway in street clothes with her ridiculously long blonde hair wrapped around her shoulders like a scarf.

"Piss of, perv," she said, shooting him the bird, but she didn't sound upset.

"Aw c'mon, you know it ain't like that," Garrison continued. "If it was, I'd be giving you a look like this."

I couldn't see the face he made from my position, but Cassie laughed, then sauntered over and dropped down onto a couch far away from both him and Layla.

"You're lucky we're teammates," she said. "Last guy that looked at me like that sings soprano these days."

"I'll be sure to keep your ball-busting tendencies in mind for the future," he said, and she laughed again.

I was a bit envious at the ease of the exchange. It also struck me that they were the only two who'd actually talked with each other. Neither had so much as acknowledged Trevor or Layla's presence.

 _A problem for another time_ , I told myself.

"Alright, we're all here now. Let's get started," I said, giving Trevor one last nod, then stepping toward the couch. I walked around them, coming to stand in front of the TV. Cassie and Garrison focused on me, while Trevor just walked over to a corner and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Layla, for her part, stayed where she was, sitting on the couch and staring at nothing.

I paused for a moment once I had everyone's attention, minus possibly Layla's. What was the right level of authority to project? How to start? Did I invite comments from the others, or try to dominate the conversation? I had a number of points to raise, and I wanted them to come out right.

"Alright," I repeated. "We did pretty well last night against Sixer and Stray, especially considering it was our first night out as a team. I could say that we could do better, but I don't think that sort of thing is helpful. We're all smart, we've all got good powers, and we've all got our own reasons to want to do well. So improving is a given. It's inevitable, as long as we work at it. Instead, I want to see what everyone thought of Sixer and Stray themselves. What sort of stuff we all noticed, and how we can use that going forward."

I spent another moment looking around. Garrison and Cassie looked fairly pleased at what I'd said. They both probably thought I was mostly talking about them when I said we'd done well. Trevor and Layla... didn't look any different. Again, no surprise, but I'd been hoping.

"Well first off," Garrison said, "those dog things of Stray's. They helped untie him. I thought they were supposed to be out of his control, but I guess he's got some kind of choice about what they do."

"Or they work to help him without commands," Cassie added. "One of the two."

"Those are good points," I said, nodding to both of them in turn. "I'd also point out that he didn't seem to have any difficulty making them. No obvious effort needed, or a cost in terms of energy or stamina. Just a touch of the ground, and they crawl out."

"Kind of makes him dangerous, then," Garrison said. "If he's got no limits or anything, couldn't he just make a million dogs or whatever, then fuck off and let them kill us?"

"Can't be that easy." I turned to Trevor, and Garrison shot him an annoyed glance over his shoulder. "Can't be," he repeated, more firmly. "If he could command the dogs, and didn't have a limit on how many he could make, then why wasn't he already surrounded with dozens or hundreds of them when we broke in? Has to be more to it."

"I agree," I said, nodding to him. "That's another good point. My guess is that there's some kind of time limit on them. A lifespan, I guess. Or a limit on distance. Having to keep his pack close would make using them day-to-day pretty difficult. Plus they tore pretty big holes in the floor when they emerged, which would make either a time or distance limit even more difficult to work around."

Garrison frowned at that, clearly thinking, while Trevor just went back to leaning against the wall.

"There were no commands," Layla said, and I nearly jumped.

"Oh?" I said, for lack of a better response.

She nodded. "He felt nothing when creating them. Gave them no... targets."

"Ah," I said. "Good to know. Could you get anything from the dogs themselves?"

Her face screwed up for a moment, a kind of dismay. "No. I didn't think to try."

"That's fine," I said. "Something to think about for the future, though."

"Are we expecting to fight those two again?" Garrison asked.

"It's possible," I said. "We took their territory, so they obviously aren't going to be too happy with us. I think we have to consider retaliation a possibility."

"We kicked their asses, though," Cassie said. "They'd be retarded to think it would be different next time."

"Or just angry," Trevor said. "People can do some pretty dumb stuff if they're angry enough."

Cassie sneered at him and opened her mouth, but I spoke before she could. "Doesn't matter," I said. "It's a possibility we have to respect, no matter how likely or unlikely it is. Besides, discussing our opponents is a good habit to get into, regardless of whether we think we'll fight them again or not. Now, Sixer. Thoughts on him?"

There was a moment of silence as Cassie turned away from Trevor, arms crossed in a huff.

"Uh, not that much to say about him, I guess," Garrison said. "I kinda feel like we've already seen everything he can do. Some concrete spears and shields that he controls with his mind. Pretty simple stuff."

"Yeah, I agree," Trevor said. "He's no pushover, but if he had any other tricks to pull out I think he would have. He didn't seem like the type with much restraint."

"So we don't think he could make bigger creations, or maybe move them faster?" I asked. "Or maybe bigger ones that are slower, and smaller ones that are faster?"

"I doubt it," Trevor said. "If he coulda, he woulda. No reason to hold cards in reserve that I can see."

"Fair," I said, nodding to him again.

"So, we done?" he asked, pushing himself off the wall and heading for the door. "Can I get moving?"

"Just a few more things," I said, holding a hand up to stop him. He paused, frowning at me slightly, but settled back into place. "First, just so everyone knows, we can all come here any time, use any of the facilities. There's no fridge, but if you want any food just ask in the kitchen and they'll make something. There's no other way into the hideout itself than the door, but there's a few extra ways in and out of the Falmel. Just ask Donnie or Zoe if you want to know where they are. I'd like us all to avoid coming and going through the front door outside of work hours."

"Easy enough," Trevor said. "That all?"

I hesitated for a moment. Was now the right time? I wasn't sure what my father would say, but I felt like we had some momentum, with our first win. Keeping that up seemed like a good idea.

"One more thing, yeah," I said. "Our next operation will be tomorrow night, and I'd like everyone to be here by eight. Our targets are Crossbone and Bonebreaker."

Again, everyone was silent for a moment, though this time there was a hint of incredulity to it.

"Wait," Cassie said. "We're going after heroes?"


	3. Stratosphere 1-3

Most people thought of Brockton Bay as a single city. It wasn't.

That hadn't always been the case, of course. Like most cities on the East Coast, it had been around in some form since the eighteenth century. Maybe it started as a fishing village, maybe a place where natives gathered, maybe as a trading post. It didn't really matter. What had really started it going was the shipping industry, combined with the coal boom. Ships had come across the ocean to buy or sell cargo, and trains had taken that cargo all over the country. Back then, the city had a single purpose, and it expanded in a focused way, everything supporting that growing industry.

Not that the growth had continued forever. The city was blocked in by hills to the north, west, and south, and by the ocean to the east. Not enough to prevent roads and rail-lines, and those same hills went a long way toward explaining the city's unusually mild climate, but it still provided an eventual halt to the city's expansion. So while other cities like New York, Boston, or Chicago had kept growing and growing, becoming massive world-renowned metropolises, Brockton Bay had stagnated.

Then parahumans had arrived. Then the riots happened. Shipping dried up, and villains moved in. The people who had money refocused on tech, banking, or tourism, and everyone else was left to themselves.

And the city had ceased to be one city, and become three.

It wasn't something people thought about much, but nowadays there were only two main roads connecting the Downtown core to the north end of the city. There had been more in the past, straight thoroughfares radiating away from the docks, connecting to each other in a web, welding the trainyards, warehouses, factories, and wharfs to the city center and the money that flowed from it. But after the riots, reconstruction happened, and many of those roads were re-routed, serving the new skyscrapers that were built and, perhaps not incidentally, cutting off the former working-class from the new opportunities that sprang up.

I wasn't sure it had been deliberate, but I also wouldn't have been surprised if someone had told me it was.

Similarly, the south end had sealed itself off from the rest of the city, and in much the same way. The college and the shopping district had expanded, new high-rise apartment blocks had gone up, new high-income housing had been constructed in the hills to the west, and beachfront homes had gone up in place of old industrial areas. And among it all, the straight roads had disappeared.

Brockton Bay was three cities, each with their own industries – or lack thereof – populations, schools, malls, grocery stores, and in many ways their own cultures. Both cape and otherwise.

I walked through streets that just days ago hadn't been mine, my team arrayed behind me. We passed by a Fast'n'Go, a convenience store you'd never see in any other part of the city. The cashier watched us through glass walls, his eyes wide but not afraid. He didn't bolt, or duck under the counter, or even try to make a call. He didn't raise a phone to record us, either, or make a move to follow, to see what might be an 'exciting' fight.

In the north, capes were gangsters, and usually racially-focused ones. If you stumbled across one, you ran. If you saw one in the street, you turned off your lights and hid, hoping they'd go away.

Downtown, capes were entertainers. If you saw one, it was probably one of the city's officially sponsored heroes. A member of the Protectorate or Wards. Chances were they were doing a public event. There were still fights, but the _real_ ones happened at night, out of the public eye.

The South was different yet again. Here, capes were a curiosity. They didn't hassle shopkeepers for protection money, or beat people up if they were the wrong color. They also didn't sign autographs or hold press conferences. They were the dregs that couldn't make it where the big money was, heroes and villains both, slinking around and taking what they could without drawing down the ire of the _real_ capes.

Or maybe I was just feeling tired, uncomfortable, and worried, and I wasn't being fair. After all, we were here now, and I wasn't going to settle for being a dreg. Couldn't. My father wouldn't accept it.

We came to an intersection, and I looked around, orienting myself. I knew the area, but we weren't exactly on the main streets, and the midnight darkness made it a bit tough to read street signs, even with my mask on.

The territory we'd taken from Sixer and Stray was about three blocks long and a bit over one across, centred on the old mechanic's shop they'd run, located in a commercial area that wasn't doing very well. Plenty of empty stores caused by low traffic, all the former customers going to one of the new malls that kept popping up, leaving only specialty stores that did what most malls didn't, or smaller business that served the people that lived in the area. There didn't seem to be any plans to rejuvenate the area, either. Not yet far gone enough to be a blight.

It made for an area without much in the way of residents, except for a couple of older apartment buildings. Lots of room to set up shop, but not many customers. Perfect for a duo that had been about selling their muscle to other villains, or the occasional hero. No so good for much else. I'd wanted it partly because it bordered on the nicer neighborhoods near the beach, but wasn't nice enough itself to have quick response times from the police or PRT. But most importantly, I'd wanted it because it was in easy walking distance of the Falmel.

The problem was, it put us on the map.

"Hey, something wrong?" Chariot asked, breaking my train of thought.

I blinked, focusing. "No, everything's fine," I said.

"Okay," he said. "But you were spacing out, so I kinda figured—"

"It's fine," I said, interrupting him. I started walking again, crossing the street that divided our territory from that of Crossbone and Bonebreaker. "Just going over the plan one last time."

"Do we get to know the plan?" he asked. "Hell, do we get to know why we're doing this at all?"

I stopped again and turned to face him. He held my gaze for a moment, then looked away.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Just—"

"It's fine," I said, interrupting him again. "It's not like I expect you all to go in blind. Just give me a minute to put my thoughts together."

He nodded, and we started moving again.

Unfortunately, there wasn't that much to say. For all my brooding on the subject, and for all that my father had drilled the politics and powers of all the heroes and villains in the south end into my head, the reason for the attack was pretty simple.

We held territory now, and to some extent that gave us leeway. Not as much as it would have in other parts of the city, but some. Other villains would stay out, and make sure none of their business took place nearby. After all, stealing the take of a rival's dealers was a quick, easy way to make some money.

But heroes were kind of the opposite. While most conflict between villains took place on the borders of territories – skirmishes and tagging for the most part – heroes tended to head deeper inside. Looking for those same dealers or gang members, trying to make arrests when they could, and if they were lucky – or unlucky – they might encounter the villains in charge.

That wasn't something I wanted to deal with yet, so to some extent we were flipping the script. Going into territory held – 'protected' – by a pair of heroes, doing to them what they tried to do to other villains.

But then, that was probably the core advantage villains held over heroes, or so my father told me. They— _We_ got to be on the offensive. If the heroes came by on a patrol, villains could be told by their non-powered gang members, or set up cameras, or find some other means of getting an early warning, and then decide to either suit up and confront them, or let them pass by. Turned the other way, villains were also the ones to initiate crimes. Whether it was a bank robbery or pushing a rival villain out of some territory you wanted, it was the same thing. We got to make the plans, and strike anywhere we chose. Heroes could only react.

I knew all that. It all made sense, too.

The problem was, despite how obvious and clear the reasoning was to me – hitting multiple targets in quick succession, putting everyone else on the defensive and keeping any fighting out of our own territory – it still felt a bit...

I grimaced. Villainous. It felt villainous. The kind of cold, calculating villainy that could measure and decide on targets from a purely pragmatic point of view. Hit some local villains because they're strong, and it will make others think twice about engaging. Take their territory because it's in a good position near the base, and because it doesn't have much of a hero presence. Hit the heroes next to them right away, to send a message and force other groups nearby to pull back and hunker down, maintaining the initiative.

All that was missing was a table with a map of the city on it, with little figures to slide around as fights happened and borders changed. It wasn't an image I'd ever wanted associated with me.

Of course, there wasn't any way I could tell the others that.

We crossed another street, and I led us into an alley between a dentist's and a UPS office, both closed for the night. We left the streetlights behind, and I could barely make out the winking skull and crossbones emblem painted on the bricks. We were getting close.

"We're going after Crossbone and Bonebreaker because they're aggressive," I said. True of course, if not the full story. "They like to fight villains, and they're pretty rough about it. If they were the type to go after unpowered criminals, they'd be considered vigilantes, if they weren't in jail. It's what got them kicked out of Downtown. They took on Coil's mercenaries, put a few in the hospital. The next time they got the favor returned, and after they healed up they relocated to here."

"So you're saying that if we didn't go after them, they'd come after us?" Rune asked.

"More or less," I said.

"Would that be so bad?" Turismo asked. He was looking around as we moved, peering into every shadow, little trails of sparkling dust trickling from his fingers. "Let them come, then send them packing."

"We could do it that way," I said, and paused, once again debating how much to say. I opted to continue. "But this sends a better message. We took on Sixer and Stray the night before last, and we got away without any injuries."

"I'll say," Rune said, grinning. "Kicked their asses and sent them running with their tails between their legs."

"I think I get it," Chariot said, more quietly than before, with a little bit of anger. "We take out some of the biggest hitters around, and come out unscathed enough that we can do it all over again the next day. It'll make anyone else think twice before messing with us."

I nodded. "More or less," I repeated.

"Okay, so what about the fight itself?" Turismo asked. "What's the plan there?"

"Not much to it," I said. "Neither of them hit as hard as Sixer or Stray did. Well, Bonebreaker can. He's a brute. He hits hard and can take a punch. But he's no faster than a regular person and he can't do much at range, which makes him pretty simple to deal with. Chariot, if possible, I'd like you to keep him occupied."

"Sure," Chariot said.

"Crossbone's a bit more tricky," I continued. "He's a blaster. Throws big anchors made of energy. They burn if they hit you, and can stick you to things. If that happens, it lets Bonebreaker close in, so avoid that if possible."

"Sounds like good synergy," Turismo said. "And they've been a team for a while, right? Are we expecting this to be a tough fight?"

"Not especially," I said. "They've got some experience, and they work well together, but in the end it's still two against five. Normally Bonebreaker protects Crossbone, but there's enough of us that he won't be able to. Just avoid the anchors, don't get reckless, and we'll win easily enough."

Nobody said anything after that, but the silence was less uncomfortable than it had been. Even Chariot seemed less unhappy.

More of my father's words came to mind. _The first job of a leader is to be confident._

There'd been more to it, of course. There always was, with him. Always another example or piece of advice. Still, I hadn't planned it that way, but if showing my own confidence was going to increase everyone else's, I wasn't going to complain.

We passed out of the alley and into a small parking lot, bounded on two sides by a short concrete wall topped with a chain-link fence, and on the other by a few buildings and another alley, wider, presumably what cars used to get in and out of the space. It would have made a good place to fight, away from any potential collateral damage except for a few parked cars, but sadly that wasn't likely to happen.

One of the problems with fighting heroes, and a reason they were able to stick around in a city where the villains outnumbered them so heavily, was that they rarely had much to protect. Or at least nothing of the sort villains could strike at. Similarly they didn't tend to have obvious places of business, areas they needed to regularly show up at, where they could reliably be found. If you wanted to attack them you had to do it while they were out and about, patrolling, or already in the middle of an attack.

Villains might always be on the offensive, choosing the place to attack – or not, as they chose – but in a way, heroes were the ones that got to choose the time.

Of course, as with everything that involved capes, there were exceptions. Ways to break the rules, whatever they might be.

"Vasistha?"

"They're close," she said, speaking for the first time since we'd set out. "That way."

I followed her pointing finger, trying to bring up a map of the area in my head.

"Near the little mini-mall?" I asked. "The one with the doughnut place?"

"Yes," she said. "They just passed it. They're moving, but not fast. That way." She gestured again, indicating their path of travel.

I nodded, thinking. It was about as I'd expected. The pair patrolled 'their' territory most nights, before moving out in search of trouble. Unusual for heroes. They didn't usually hold territory in the way villains did. No easy way to make money from it. My father figured that some local businesses had likely pooled together some money to pay them to do it. Not common, but it did happen. The other option was that they lived in the area and were just stupid enough to start every patrol in their own neighborhood. Again, that did happen from time to time.

Well, if that was the case, they were going to be even more unhappy when we kicked them out, though they'd have only themselves to blame.

"We'll intercept them out in the street," I said. "It's as open an area as we're going to get, and that just works to our advantage here."

The others nodded, and we set off.

Roads in Brockton Bay were rarely that wide. No space for it. Almost none were more than two lanes, and there wasn't a single real freeway. But a road was still a road, and when the five of us stepped around a corner and started marching toward the surprised figures of Bonebreaker and Crossbone, it gave them plenty of time to act and a clear line of sight toward us.

They took it. Unlike with Sixer and Stray, there was no talking. Even if they hadn't heard of us yet, five capes showing up by surprise wasn't likely to mean anything good, and fight or flight really were the only choices they had.

A glowing red anchor shot toward us, five feet across and trailing a silent chain of light, but it only hit asphalt. It sank in nearly a foot, sending up smoke that smelled like tar.

I started jogging forward even as Crossbone released the chain, stepping back and getting into what I assumed had to be a shooting stance. One of the weaknesses to his power was that the origin point of the chain was along his inner thigh, meaning he couldn't run and maintain fire. As the chain hit the ground it started sputtering and jerking, disappearing link by link. It reminded me a bit of a fuse, and I felt a flash of worry, but I hadn't heard about the anchors detonating or anything like that. More likely it acted as a timer, the anchor disappearing once the links were gone. Did that mean they lasted longer the further he threw them? I could see it.

It was good information, but I didn't have much time to process it. I dodged another anchor through enhanced instinct, slashing at the chain with my heat axe, but it had no effect, passing through harmlessly. Bonebreaker was up next, charging forward, encased in an ornate shell of pale bone, all curls and whorls. He was intimidating. Not much taller than me even in his armor, but much wider, and his feet pounded an audible rhythm on the street as he rushed to meet me.

I wasn't alone, though. Chariot came up behind me, then sped ahead, wheeled boots sparking off the ground as he zigged and zagged, tossing handfuls of metal spheres covered in blinking LEDs into Bonebreaker's path.

He might have been a brute, but he wasn't a fool, and the hero slowed, checking his momentum through sheer brawn and turning aside, away from the spheres that rolled toward him. I took the opportunity to break in the other direction, speeding up and heading for Crossbone. Behind me, I could hear Turismo doing the same.

"Crud!" Bonebreaker swore, turning on us, but I ignored him, leaving him for Chariot. The sound of squealing tires and a sudden crashing impact told me it was the right decision.

Another anchor came at me as Crossbone backpedalled, accurate enough that I doubted it was panic fire. The focused set of his mouth below his plastic visor – not pirate themed, thankfully – told me the same.

I raised my gun for a moment, but didn't fire. Crossbone was wearing body armor, and he'd probably have been fine, if injured, but 'probably' wasn't a good word when talking about bullets. The hesitation let him throw another anchor my way, but I was already dodging when it appeared, turning my rush into more of a flanking attack, jogging around him, keeping some distance.

Turismo did the same, circling in the other direction, trying to get behind him, but Crossbone was too experienced for that. He didn't stand still, or backpedal, or keep throwing anchors when they obviously weren't hitting. Once again he showed his experience by sprinting right through the gap we'd made, heading straight for Bonebreaker.

Turismo didn't let him. He tossed a handful of his dust, the heavy particles moving much faster and in a much longer arc than I'd have expected, coating Crossbone's back and part of his legs, with the spilloff scattering onto the road. The hero cursed, stumbling and clawing at his back as the dust sparked and popped, sending his legs twitching, but he didn't fall.

It was enough to let me catch up again, and I moved in. Crossbone spun on me, clearly hearing my approach, and threw another anchor. Not at me, this time, but at the ground in front of him; it stuck there, five feet across and nearly as tall, a barricade I couldn't easily get around.

My jaw clenched for a moment before I could force it to relax. That wasn't a tactic I'd considered, when hearing about his power.

"Kids," Crossbone muttered, eyes shifting from Turismo to me and back as he finished shaking the dust off his costume, moving to keep the anchor between him and us. "You've all got plenty of get up and go, but you don't have the experience to back it up."

I didn't answer, too busy watching the anchor's chain disappearing, shortening toward nothing. It wouldn't be long. I risked a look toward Bonebreaker, but he was still a good distance back down the road, flailing at Chariot as the tinker danced around him, speeding up and changing direction quickly and randomly enough that I could barely keep my eyes on him. So we had time.

The last link of the chain burst, and the anchor flickered and twisted, then disappeared. I charged, but Crossbone had clearly been expecting that, and slammed another anchor down on the road in front of him, and I backpedalled, getting ready to go around the side.

I didn't notice until too late that this anchor didn't have a chain. It disappeared almost as soon as it hit the road, and Crossbone rushed through the space it had occupied, barrelling into me full-on, taking us both down to the ground.

The back of my helmet bounced off the asphalt, the impact still enough to jar me. Using my momentary disorientation, Crossbone sat up, knees clenched to my ribs, and raised his hands in what looked like a boxing guard. I swung my heat axe without thinking, but Crossbone blocked it, his forearm meeting my forearm and forcing the glowing blade away from him, careful not to touch it. He grinned, his power ready to fire, and it wasn't a nice expression.

My eyes widened, and I had a moment of sharp clarity, my mind accelerating, taking in every detail around me. I could see the cracks in Crossbone's visor, several held together with tape, and the way his dark hair hung around his neck, greasy and stringy. His body armor was the cheap kind, probably from a military surplus store, which made me glad I'd decided against shooting him. I noticed his ratty jeans had metal pads on the knees, and his ripped denim jacket had more of the same on his elbows. I noticed the red light swirling around his legs, about to form and anchor that would pin me to the street, and probably roast a straight line through my chest at the same time, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I also noticed when his mouth dropped open in surprise, and he jerked downward, as if trying to duck under something that wasn't there. I went with the motion, bucking my hips and doing my best to throw him off me, turn his duck into a full roll, but his knees were clamped on too tight. He steadied himself with a hand on the ground beside my head – the same hand that had been about to form the anchor, thankfully – and used the other to punch me in the jaw, snapping my head to the side. He hit me again, and a third time, before rolling off me and stepping away, weaving side-to-side. I didn't realize why until I saw Turismo move into view, tossing handfuls of dust toward Crossbone one after another.

Turismo stopped beside me and reached down, extending a hand, and I felt a sudden flash, like electricity hitting my forehead. I reached out, but instead of letting him pull me up, I pulled him down on top of me, just in time for an anchor to flash over us. He froze, face stuck halfway between angry and terrified, then scrambled to his feet.

I followed a moment later. "Don't let your guard down," I told Turismo as we squared off again. "He won't."

"Good advice," Crossbone said, speaking loud enough for us both to hear him. "But that's not gonna—"

He was cut off by the empty paint can that fell on him from above. It clanged off his skull and he went down in a heap. An old couch followed a moment later, breaking apart as it hit him, burying him in broken wood and upholstery. A trash can followed that, then a number of garbage bags, bits of scrap lumber, an old cabinet, and a shower of other junk I couldn't identity. Then, in an impact which shook the ground – and my skull – a metal dumpster cratered down a few feet beside the pile.

Once my ears had stopped ringing, I realized the fight was over. Crossbone was buried and possibly unconscious, and Bonebreaker was frozen in place, staring at the garbage that covered his teammate.

"Hey assfuck! Yeah you! Up here! I got plenty for you too!" I glanced up to see Rune floating in the air about forty feet up, standing on the top of another dumpster – still full – and jabbing a finger toward Bonebreaker. Two more dumpsters floated nearby, equally full. Vasistha stood on top of one, a broken lamp in one hand and a garbage bag in the other.

"You little cunt!" he shouted, but was cut off by Vasistha throwing the garbage bag at him. He swiped it aside, shredding it and sending the contents scattering down the street.

Rune laughed, loud and mocking, and I saw Bonebreaker tense up, his armored shell flexing and creaking.

"I think we can agree that this is the end," I said, raising my voice and walking toward Bonebreaker. He snarled and started toward me, Chariot moving in his wake, but I just raised my gun and pulled the trigger. The buzzing snarl and the dozen impacts against his chest stopped him cold, and he raised his arms to defend himself.

"Your teammate is hurt," I said. "Out of the fight. But we're all still standing. You're tough, but there's five of us, and we have the firepower to take you down."

"Yeah, well maybe you do," he said. In the quiet, I noticed that his voice was very... normal, despite his appearance. He sounded angry, and a bit tired, but that was it. "But I can guaran-fucking-tee it'll—"

I swung my gun toward the pile of garbage burying Crossbone, and he stopped talking. His fists clenched and unclenched, but he didn't speak.

"We're taking this territory," I said. "It's ours, one way or another. What condition you're in when we lay claim to it doesn't matter to me."

"That's what this is?" Bonebreaker asked. "You want Freely Street?"

I nodded, my gun still trained on Crossbone.

"Little bastard," he said. "So, I agree to leave, and I get to take Crossbone with me?"

"More or less," I said. "You choose to leave, and that's the end of this. You don't, and it isn't."

"And what if I say I'll do it, then just take my buddy and stay anyway?"

"You get another few days here, I suppose," I said. "Then we come back, and evict you more permanently."

He grunted, then turned and spit on the ground, his armor's jaw moving to accommodate the action. "Fuck it. We've moved before. We'll go. But don't expect us to play nice the next time."

"That's fine," I said. "As long as you don't expect us to, either."

He grunted again, but didn't say any more. I sheathed my axe and gun, then gestured. Turismo and Chariot moved over to me, falling in as I walked away, careful to keep an eye on Bonebreaker as I did. He didn't move, though, apart from turning his head to track us as we went. Then we turned a corner, and he was out of sight.

I stopped and held up a hand, cocking my head to listen. I could hear Bonebreaker as he stomped over to the garbage pile and started tossing pieces of it aside.

"Are we not leaving?" Chariot asked in a low voice.

"We are," I said. "I just wanted to make sure Bonebreaker wouldn't try for an ambush."

"Oh," was all he said in response.

I nodded, and started walking again. Soon enough, Rune joined us, lowering her dumpsters to the ground in a messy cluster, uncaring of where she was dropping them. I didn't comment, just holding a hand out to her to help her get down. She took it with a grin, then hopped down carefully. I did the same for Vasistha, who climbed down somewhat slower.

"Alright guys, listen up." Their heads all turned to me, attention undivided. "Now that we have some more territory, we're going to have to start making our presence known. We don't have to do a lot, just fly the flag. We're still pretty new around here, so don't be cocky. Mix up your routes and don't hang around one place too long; we can handle any of the locals, but I don't want any of us to get into it with the PRT just yet. Everyone got it so far?"

At the sign of their nods, I continued.

"Turismo, Rune, you two will patrol together. Chariot and I will alternate with you two. Vasistha, your power lets you keep an eye on the area, but it's better most people don't know you're here. Like a ghost."

"That all, Red?" Turismo asked.

"Yeah, I think that's it. If you have any questions, now would be the time."

"So," Rune said, clasping her hands behind her back and looking up at me. "Would you really have killed him?"

There was a moment of silence as everyone looked to me. I glanced around, but apart from Turismo – who didn't look like he cared – costumes prevented me from reading anyone's expression.

Still, I knew the answer mattered. It was something that would define us as a team, and whatever I said there were going to be disadvantages. More, whatever I said, this wasn't going to unify us. There wasn't any way to satisfy everyone, even if I'd known what they all wanted me to say. My father's advice echoed in my head.

 _Never bluff. If you're called out, carry through. You can never be unsure. Never let them doubt you, or your word._

"Yes," I lied.

The response was almost anticlimactic. Nobody exploded, or protested angrily. Nobody even spoke. I waited for a second, looking around again, meeting everyone's eyes. Then I started walking again, and they all fell in behind me.

 _Okay,_ I thought, trying to find a distraction. _One more fight won. A couple more blocks of territory. What next?_

I wasn't an easy question to answer. We had more territory now, or would as soon as it was known we'd kicked the heroes out of it – assuming they actually left, which I thought they would – but what did that mean? Yes, we had some extra leeway now. Villains wouldn't attack us because we'd taken out heroes. Heroes wouldn't attack us because there was nothing to target. Both of them would be wary because we'd just won two fights back-to-back. But we still weren't any closer to making any money from it.

It might be possible to come to a protection arrangement similar to what the hero duo had with the locals, assuming that had actually been what they were doing. It would be tricky, though. Options of selling drugs or running escorts was also still on the table, though that would inevitably cause friction in the team, and if I was honest I didn't think I could force myself to go that route anyway.

The simple fact was that the options villains had to make money were limited, if potentially very lucrative, and they tended to boil down to either stealing things or selling illegal goods or services. Even running protection fell into that category, from a certain point of view. So in a way our options were pretty simple. The problem was that none of them really appealed to me. Even if we limited ourselves to stealing from other villains, that wasn't going to be a sustainable strategy, and probably not all that profitable of one in the first place. It wasn't like most villains kept their cash hidden in a mattress in their lair or something.

Well, I knew a few in the city that might. Uber and Leet, for starters. Cold Snap. Skidmark. Slapshot, maybe. But none of them worked in the south end, and running heists in other parts of the city, against villains or not, sent a message we couldn't afford.

I stifled a frustrated sigh as we passed back into our territory, and out of our soon-to-be territory. It wasn't like we were short on money or anything. My father had been more than generous when outfitting us, and I had enough cash on hand to pay the others and cover any potential expenses for at least a few months. It wasn't like I'd be asked to pay it back or anything, either. That wasn't my father's style. In fact, if we did run out of cash, I was certain he'd be happy to give me more. As much as I needed. Millions, even. Maybe more.

To most it'd probably seem a bit backwards, lending money just so that I could return a fraction to him at the end of the month, but that wasn't his game, and we both knew it. He wanted to groom me, get me used to doing what I had to do to turn a profit so that, eventually, he could use me in a more practical sense. That's how it would start: a few suggestions, maybe a few offers for cash or equipment whenever I was behind my dues. But they would come with strings attached. Not obvious ones. Not ones where I'd even notice the tug, probably. No, the strings would be in the form of suggestions, and any punishment for resisting would be disappointment at most. But disappointment that would spread. Pass to others. Alter how they acted around me. How they perceived me. Maybe it would even infect the team. If I kept fighting long enough, maybe they'd even turn on me. And then my father would be there again, to help me pick myself up. The only one still on my side. Still willing to provide what I needed, and _advise_ me.

No, I didn't want that. Of course, it wasn't something I could avoid completely, or forever. But I could cut off as many avenues to it as possible. Keep my team loyal. Establish my reputation for myself. Win fights.

But first, and most pressing, was money.


	4. Stratosphere 1-4

"Fuck!"

I set my controller down on the couch, the screen declaring my victory in an assault of blue and gold. Garrison meanwhile beat his controller against the surface of the couch, as though he was trying to exorcise the loose change within.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Red, do you do anything in your free time other than play this game?"

I couldn't help but smile just a little. Garrison and I were the only ones who'd taken to living in the apartments provided by my father. Trevor still stayed with his parents, and Cassie was staying with her uncle. The side effect of this was that we tended to arrive to team meetings a lot sooner than the others, which left us with some time to fuck around.

"You're just being too obvious. Dash then jump, every time."

"Yeah, whatever. I'm done."

I shrugged as he got up and started to walk around the couch, turning to the other figure in the room. "You wanna play, Layla?"

She shook her head. "Cassidy is less than a block away." She paused. "No sign of Trevor."

"Oh, well, alright then," was all I could muster in response. Not knowing how to bridge the silence, I started cleaning up the controllers, wrapping the cords neatly before putting them back under the TV and returning the disc to its original place on the shelf. Neat and orderly, like Kayden would insist.

Things were going better with the team over the last few weeks, if only barely. Since I had him talking on the topic of tinkering, Trevor had began to warm up a bit more, even if only towards me. It wouldn't do much in the way of mending the gap between the two sides of the team, but I hoped it was a start.

True to Layla's prediction, it didn't take long for Cassie to show up. Her long hair was braided, and even coiled around her neck like a scarf, it still draped well past her waistline. This was accompanied by a red leather jacket which looked pretty expensive.

"Hey dumbass, hey Theo, what's up," she greeted. She peeled off her jacket and hung it on a hook by the door, revealing a black tank top.

"Hey, Cass," I greeted.

"Fuck off," Garrison added.

"The fuck crawled up your ass?"

"He's mad because he lost at a video game," I supplied.

Cassie chuckled, and Garrison's cheeks lit up red.

Trying to save face, Garrison sniped, "You wanna try it for real, poindexter?"

"Try that in here and your brother will kill you before either of us throw a punch." In retrospect, maybe I should have ended that there. "Besides, you seemed to take yourself out of the fight well enough against Washout, do I even need to be here for this?"

A girlish laugh filled the air, and it took me a moment to realize that this time it wasn't Cassie.

"You got a fucking problem, shitskin?" Garrison moved across the room, but I was already in his way. I bumped his shoulder with mine, stopping him cold, then faced him full on, grabbing his wrists. I brought them up to either side of his head and squeezed. If he were to use his power, he could've had me on the ground in an instant, we both knew that, but he wouldn't dare try it. He wasn't immune to his own power, and we both knew that too.

 _When your subordinates step out of line, it's your job to put them back in their place, with words—_

"Don't. Don't even think it. I know how you're used to things back home, but now you're here, and you're a member of this team. _My_ team. I'm not saying you have to love your teammates, or even like them, but don't take your anger out on them because you lost at a fucking video game. At least _try_ to act like an adult, for God's sake."

I held his gaze as he glared back at me, his cheeks still red, hands balled into fists in my grip. We were both tall, but I had the advantage in weight and strength, and there wasn't much he could do. Even so, I could tell he wasn't about to back down.

— _or with actions._

I stepped forward, right in his face, and hooked my foot behind his heel. By the time he registered what I'd done, both of his feet were already off the ground. I followed him down as he fell flat on his back, still holding his wrists, and planted a knee on his chest, pressing down on him. He wheezed, and I felt the fight go out of him.

I let him go, then stood up and turned to check on Layla, making it a point to let Garrison notice. To keep an eye on him would be to recognize him as a threat, which could only escalate things further.

Layla herself seemed impassive; not as scared as she should've been, but not confident either. Just uncaring.

My thoughts were interrupted by the wooden creak of the door opening; whipping my head around, I saw a costumed Trevor being escorted by Donnie. Both sets of eyes were locked on the grounded Garrison, but both were accompanied by a different expression.

Donnie's eyes met mine and his face tightened into a frown. It felt like he was about to say something but then thought better of it, as all he did was turn and walk away, making no effort to disguise his mood with his heavy footsteps.

The silence itched at the back of my neck.

"Alright," I said, not knowing anything better to do. "Let's get this over with."

I took a seat next to Layla and waited for the team to gather round. Garrison and Cassie sat on the couch across from me, while Trevor took the unoccupied seat to my flank.

My dad had this set up to encourage me to make choices myself, but that didn't mean I couldn't make do.

From the kangaroo pouch of my hoodie I produced a pen, my notebook, and a tablet, an expensive little thing that I rarely elected to use. The perk of 'mobile' didn't mean much for someone with my lifestyle, and I had a more than decent laptop to boot. I selected a slide show app and set it on the coffee table before looking to the group, the screen displaying the words 'Month One' in bright text.

I scrolled down, past the notes from previous meetings. Mostly about who we'd fought. Sixer and Stray, Bonebreaker and Crossbone, Coach and Slapshot, Washout and Highrise, the Turtle, and finally Misericorde. All villains, other than Bonebreaker and Crossbone. So far we'd mostly avoided heroic attention.

"Alright, this is probably going to be a short meeting. Cassie, Garrison—" At hearing their names, Garrison sat up a little straighter, while Cassie remained slumped into the couch. She hadn't said a thing since my brief scuffle with Garrison. "You two said you ran into someone out on your patrol. Who?"

Garrison relaxed a little while Cassie elaborated, a bit sullen. "No idea. My uncle makes me keep up with all the local capes but this punk wasn't someone I recognized. He's new, gotta be."

I frowned. That had the potential to be bad. Up till now we'd had the advantage of being relatively unknown, while all of our targets had been known quantities. It wasn't an advantage that could last forever, but I wasn't looking forward to losing it.

"What did they look like?"

"Some short kid, skinny too. He was wearing football padding to cover it but his arms were fuckin' twigs."

"Got it. Anything else? Colors, defining features..." I kept writing as she spoke.

"His costume was orange, real high-viz shit. Other than that, nothing."

"Powers, then. What did he do?"

"Teleporter. Not just himself, other people and stuff too. Ended up blowing Sparky's pixie dust back in our faces. Can't be as versatile as all that, though. He never got up onto the roofs, and he couldn't move stuff I had in the air."

"So his power is ground based?"

She shrugged. "Makes sense to me."

"Alright, that's good. If Chariot and I know what to build around we can deal with him. Moving on, then."

I finished writing down my notes on the new cape and then tapped the screen, bringing up the next slide. On the screen were three figures, one was a civilian man, Middle Eastern, smiling and holding up his hands in a double thumbs' up. On either side of him was a cape, each clad in a red leather suit. One was an older man, maybe the same age as my father; the other was a small girl, maybe even younger than Layla.

Surprisingly, Trevor was the first one to speak. "That's Bonfire and Hotspot. We fighting them next?"

I shook my head. "Bad idea. They don't have anything to offer, and attacking a kid isn't good for our rep." I reached out to the tablet and zoomed in on the background. "Recognize that?"

I got a few confused looks, but just as I opened my mouth to speak up, Layla beat me to it.

"They're in our territory."

I nodded. "Right. I doubt they were looking for us specifically. We're pretty new and most of our fights haven't gotten any media coverage, so they might not even know we exist yet. But if you guys come across them, do your best to spook them off. Again, it's an issue of reputation."

"Great. Can we get the fuck out of here now?" Garrison said as he braced his hands on his knees and moved to stand up.

I raised a hand, and he sat back down, still scowling. "One more thing. If you guys want any gear, just give me a list and I should be able to get it for you. My father has connections, so don't worry about quality."

"What sort of gear are we talking, here?" Rune asked. "Like, body armor and shit? Or are we talking machine guns and rocket launchers?"

"Those are possible," I said, and Trevor straightened up slightly. "But probably bad ideas. We've been doing pretty well so far, and now's probably not the time to escalate. I was thinking more like—" I searched for words. "Stuff to help us be better at what we're already doing."

"Like, I dunno, more stuff for me to drop on people?" Rune asked. "It's a bit of a pain having to find shit on-site every time. Especially stuff that won't just squash them."

"Sure," I said. "And maybe something to hold Garrison's dust, so he can make some early, or so that we can all spread it around." Garrison just grunted. "Or yeah, body armor too." I spared a glance for Layla. She was, as always, dressed in her costume, the yellow material almost thin enough to see through. "Maybe warmer costumes. We're getting close to winter."

"That all?" Garrison asked again. I gave him a look, but he wouldn't meet my eyes.

"That's all," I said. "No plans for tonight, either. Keep going out when you've got the time. Show the flag. Do some tagging if you want."

"We should get people for that," Rune said. "I'm shit with a spray can."

"I'll think about it," I said.

"We'll need money, first," Garrison muttered.

I bit my lip rather than respond, and he got up, walking to the door and leaving, slamming it behind him. Rune gave me a look, questioning, and I just shook my head. Her mouth twisted a bit, but she didn't say anything either, choosing instead to get up and leave more calmly, without the slammed door.

Layla ignored it all, staring off into space.

I turned to Trevor. "Something else you wanted?" I asked him, pushing down my irritation with Garrison and the whole situation. "You're usually the first out the door."

"I am," he agreed. "You guys have a fight?"

"Just a matter of discipline," I said. "Nothing you need to worry about."

"'Kay," he said, shrugged. "Whatever. But yeah, I wanted to ask if we could maybe move today's patrol back a day or two. I got plans for tonight."

"I'd rather not," I said, thinking. "I've got a thing the day after tomorrow that I can't miss."

"Yeah? What?"

I shrugged. "Social thing, with my father. Gallery opening, I think. Command performance."

"Huh," he said. "Tomorrow?"

"Cassie and Garrison are covering tomorrow," I said. "Cassie's got a family thing tonight, and I don't figure you want to swap with Garrison."

He frowned. "So, what? I cancel my plans?"

I looked at him. Trevor, in some ways, had given me the least trouble so far. He didn't push boundaries like Garrison, or blow things off like Cassie, and he paid a lot more attention than Layla did. That was something I wanted to reward, if possible, even if most of the reason he gave me so little trouble was that he was never around except to tinker or patrol.

"We could push it up instead," I suggested. "Go out now, and finish up before whatever you've got planned?"

He nodded, the frown smoothing out. "Works," he said.

"Alright. Just let me get changed and we can head out."

* * *

Our territory had grown in the weeks we'd been active. Not as much as it had at first. That level of growth wasn't sustainable. We were one of the biggest teams in the south end of the city, and by far the biggest near the water, but that didn't mean we were invincible, and more territory meant more neighbors, which meant more possible fights.

More enemies, too, considering that every time we expanded our territory it meant kicking someone else out of theirs. Not all of them took it well, and reprisals were a constant threat.

Just last week Garrison had gotten it bad from Washout, his own power only serving to backfire once he'd gotten drenched. He'd been out of action for days, and I'd worried things might snowball from there. More injuries inviting more attacks that we'd have to face with less people in fighting shape. It hadn't happened so far, thankfully.

But it did mean we'd had to step up our patrols. Get more organised. Layla was incredibly helpful there, of course, but no matter how effective she was as an early warning system, we still had to be seen to be around and active.

For a certain value of 'seen', anyway. Most of our patrols were at night, with most of our effort going to tagging our borders.

In fact, thinking about it, this was probably the first time I'd actually seen our territory during daylight hours.

Not that there was too much to see, of course. Any area that got too busy was dangerous to claim in this part of the city, where police response times weren't measured in hours and PRT times were even quicker. Residential areas were out, for similar reasons. So was anywhere close to a school or hospital. In the north end, and even downtown, the police basically ignored any calls complaining about gang tags or graffiti. Here, enough of them could invoke an actual response, and without tags there wasn't any way to know who really held an area.

Fighting the police, of course, was just out of the question.

So our territory had ended up as something of a blobby, uneven 'x' shape, stretching south and east from the Falmel, deeper into the commercial part of the south end, skirting the busy area around the Weyland mall, then expanding outward in three directions, bounded mostly by suburbs.

"Hey!" Chariot called, and I pulled myself out of my thoughts, looking in his direction.

He was standing at the end of an alley, pointing at the wall. I joined him, and it didn't take long to figure out what had caught his attention. Someone had painted over our tag. Messy, uneven black spray paint, totally covering it and the wall around it. There wasn't a new tag, though.

"Probably Washout and Highrise," I said.

"Or just some dumb kids," Chariot countered. "I mean, I doubt Washout's out of the hospital yet, and Highrise is kinda pathetic on her own."

I shrugged. "Maybe," I said, then nodded to the wall. "Doesn't really matter. Clean it off and re-tag it."

He glanced at me for a moment, looking down at my belt, at the lack of spray cans or tools there, but he didn't complain. He just got to work, pulling a can of stripper gel off his belt and loading up a brush, then scrubbing at the bricks. His nose wrinkled at the smell, but it went pretty quickly.

One of the advantages of patrolling every day. The paint didn't really have time to set.

"So, you looking forward to it?" he asked.

I blinked. "Looking forward to what?"

"Your thing," he said. "Gallery opening, or whatever it was."

I hesitated. Should I answer? If so, how honestly? Chariot wasn't the sort to talk much, so this was clearly some kind of invitation. Or something.

"Not really," I said, maybe too quickly. "Not my kind of thing."

He shot me a look, impossible to determine between his domino mask and bandana. "Oh yeah? So why go?"

"Command performance," I reminded him. "My father didn't exactly give me a choice."

He pondered that for a moment. He knew what I was talking about, of course. Everyone on the team knew who I was. Knew that I was Kaiser's son.

It was why, in the end, I wasn't afraid of Garrison leaving the team, or of Donnie deciding to kick us out of the Falmel. He might have been a power nullifying brute that could probably take on any cape in the city, but Kaiser was Kaiser. You didn't cross him and expect to get away with it.

I fought off a scowl, keeping my expression neutral with some effort.

"Does it bother you?" I asked.

Chariot looked my way again for a moment, then flicked his eyes back to the wall he was scrubbing. "So, if I say yes, you gonna put me on the ground too?"

I did scowl that time. "No," I said, shortly.

""Kay," Chariot said. "So, what'd he do to deserve it?"

 _None of your business_.

"He went after Layla," I said.

"Oh yeah?" he asked, stopping his scrubbing to look at me.

"Got mad that I beat him at a game, and Cassie laughed at him," I elaborated.

"Harsh."

"Of me, or him?"

He shrugged. "Both, I guess. Doesn't seem like you, though."

"Do you think you know me well enough to say what is and isn't like me?" I asked. Snapped, almost. "You're never around."

"Guess not," he said, going back to his work. "Thought you might have been worried or something, though. You know, taking it out on Turismo."

I paused again, then slumped slightly.

"Yeah, fair," I said. I probably should have stopped there. I didn't. "I just... was hoping to have made more money by now, is all."

"We short on cash?" he asked. "Thought we still had some from the whole thing with Turtle."

"No, we do," I said. "Just, my father expects a certain cut, and this gallery thing... It's not a deadline, per se. Just that it's the first time I'll have seen him in a while. It'll probably come up."

"Shitty," Chariot said, finishing up his work on the wall.

The black paint was gone, but most of our tag had gone with it. He tossed the brush aside and slid over a few feet, wheels whining softly, then pulled a couple spray cans off his belt. Red and gold. He started working, spraying a big triangle of red paint on the wall, filling it in, then moving to the gold. He glanced at me a few times as he worked, or at least at my costume. Copying the wing-like pattern from the front of my mantle onto the red triangle.

I was quiet while he worked, but it didn't take long before he tossed the cans aside, into the same pile of garbage the brush had gone in. Chariot worked fast. He did everything fast, really.

"So," he said, wiping his hands off on his already dirty jeans. "Money, yeah? I've maybe got a suggestion."

I raised an eyebrow, invisible behind my mask. "I'm listening."

He nodded a few times, then cleared his throat. "So, we're not doing drugs or anything, yeah? No girls either, I hear."

"That's right," I said, not quite able to hide the distaste I had for the idea. Not least because as the weeks had gone on with no real money coming in from the territory we'd taken, the idea had become... not appealing, or anything close to it. But less unappealing, at least. It wasn't like we'd have been selling bad quality product or anything, after all. My father ran a pharmaceutical company. We'd have access to the best drugs in the country, barring power-made stuff.

But I knew if I went that route, it wouldn't be the end. It never was. It was a slope I didn't want to start down, if I could avoid it.

"Well, I know some guys, right?" Chariot said. "I could probably find a good target to hit, someone with cash on hand. A quick smash-and-grab and we'd be in the black for a good while."

"Hitting other villains?" I asked. "Or someone else?"

He shrugged, a quick jerk of his shoulders. "Someone else, probably. Bad people, though. Not like, a business, you know? Not a legal one, anyway."

It was, in a lot of ways, a bad option. I didn't bother to ask who the 'guys' Chariot knew were. I doubted he'd answer if I did. Beyond that, though, it showed desperation. Villains, by and large, took the easy road to make money. Selling drugs, or guns, or fencing stolen merchandise, or selling girls, or even running a casino or fighting ring; all fairly safe options. On any given day, the worst thing you'd face was a person with a gun, and any cape would have an easy time dealing with that. People knew it, too, so even the most angry or disgruntled customers tended to keep it to themselves.

A smash and grab was different. Even if the risk wasn't that high, it showed that you needed money _now_ , rather than later. That implied a weakness of some kind, even if nobody knew exactly what it was. It was something that other teams would take note of. Overall, a bad idea, especially for the long term.

Except, we did need money. _I_ needed money. The thought of showing up at the gallery, walking with my father and having to tell him that I had nothing to show for nearly a month's work and half a dozen fights?

Not something I wanted. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Thinking over the possibilities, I said the first thing that came to mind. "It'd be dangerous. If Rune gets taken out of the fight, we'd be stuck."

Trevor nodded. "So a getaway van or something? Think your dad can get that done for you?"

"Maybe," I conceded. "Had something else in mind, but I'll have to talk to you about it. See if we can work something out. How soon can you have a target for us?" I asked.

Chariot grinned. "Tomorrow."


	5. Stratosphere 1-5

As crimes went, a smash-and-grab was one of the simplest. You just smashed into a place, grabbed everything that was worth anything – thus the name – then left as quickly as possible. No worry about alarms or police or anything of the sort. Just in and out.

Of course, as with everything, there were problems. If there weren't, then every criminal, parahuman or otherwise, would've been doing them.

The most obvious problem was that, since you went in and out as quickly as possible, you inevitably left evidence behind. You'd be on camera at a bare minimum, and your getaway vehicle probably would be too. There really wasn't any getting around that. It might not have seemed like much to some people, but evidence like that mattered a lot in court, if you got caught.

And getting caught was much more likely than was worth the trouble. Especially if you made it a habit. Smash-and-grabs were obvious crimes, after all. The fact that their effects lingered in the light of day for everyone to see left people feeling on edge, demanding someone in authority take action.

It didn't help that they were a go-to crime for the less intelligent and less connected criminals. The sort that were more likely to get caught to begin with.

But all of that could be worked around. Being on camera didn't matter as much if you were wearing a costume, especially if you planned to be in the business for the long haul. The police and PRT would have your information eventually anyway, no matter what you did. But even there you had options. The general trend in the cape community meant that going after villains out of costume wasn't something that the authorities did very often. Certainly it wasn't something you could rely on a hundred percent, but it meant that you didn't have to worry too much about a police cruiser parking outside your house and an awkward conversation with your parents, much less a handcuffed walk of shame.

Not that either of those was likely in my future anyway, but still. The team was more than just me.

No, the real issue with a smash-and-grab, and the reason they weren't more common, was _location_.

It wasn't easy to find a good target, one that had a good balance between ease of entry and a high level of valuables to take.

You wanted jewelry? Too bad, there was a reason most jewelry stores were inside malls these days. Cash? Most places didn't keep it on-hand, shipping it out or locking it up long before it was safe to try anything. Antiques? Artwork? Good luck finding any that you could fence without knowing a guy. Over the counter meds, guns? Too securely locked up to be able to make it in and out in time. Alcohol, or cigarettes, or something else easy to sell? No chance you could stuff your car with enough to actually get a profit from before someone showed up to answer the alarm.

And even if we _did_ find somewhere good to hit, we'd still have to fence anything that wasn't cash, which had its own ream of problems that went along with it. It wasn't that I couldn't find a buyer, and more that I wasn't certain I could find one without the help of my father, which meant it was a no-go.

To add to all that, we were a gang that actively held territory, which meant we had to avoid stepping on the toes of larger gangs, because they knew where to find us. If we broke into a place downtown? We might catch Coil's interest. Pull a job in the north end? Lung might take notice.

This meant that we were really only able to work in the South End, which cut out almost all of the really good targets.

If it had been just up to me, I was pretty sure I wouldn't have been able to find us a place to hit. At least not one that would be worth more than a few hundred bucks for each of us, if that.

So there was no question that I was grateful to Chariot's contact, whoever they were, for finding us a good target.

But even so...

"You sure this place actually keeps cash around?" Turismo asked.

I felt a brief moment of gratitude that he'd asked the question I hadn't been able to.

"I'm sure," Chariot said. "My guy hasn't been wrong yet."

Turismo grunted, and I had to admit I shared the sentiment, even if I couldn't show it.

The target that Chariot's contact had provided us was a little two-story office building, one of a thousand that were scattered around the south side of the city. The kind of place that squatted in an otherwise residential area, and could house anything from a dentist's office to an accounting firm, or anything in between.

Not the sort of place I'd usually expect to have thousands of dollars of cash on-hand.

But the die had been cast. There was no longer any choice but to go forward; calling everything off now would mean looking stupid in front of the team, indecisive and ineffective.

"Come on," I said, hopping out the back of the getaway van and walking forward. Turismo had parked the van in an alley a few buildings down from our target, next to a restaurant. Somewhere that might be expected to receive deliveries in the middle of the night, and also somewhere with a few different exits, either back out into the street or through the parking lot, onto a different road.

It was a small thing to focus on, and I knew myself well enough to know why I was doing it. I was procrastinating, trying to put off the job for as long as I could.

Still a bad habit, but one I wasn't sure I'd break at this point.

The others followed me out of the van, but not on foot. Our target was on the second floor, and if we wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible, that meant going in directly. Going in the first floor, setting off the alarm there and working our way up, would have taken too long. So when the others exited the van it was on top of a sheet of corrugated aluminum provided by Rune's power.

It was a bit crowded, and wouldn't last that long at the rate Rune's runes faded, but it would do.

I didn't join them. I had my own way up.

As soon as I saw that everyone else was on the way and nobody was likely to fall off, I activated my newest piece of tinkertech.

A jetpack.

Or at least, a backpack that let me fly. It wasn't technically jet powered.

I hovered upward, wobbling slightly at the unfamiliar motion. The jetpack was still crude. Something Chariot and I had worked up in a single night, as much for this job as anything. It wasn't pretty, either. It was a dark red boxy thing that attached on the back of my breastplate; two arms projected away from my lower back with a number of nozzles on them that emitted enough compressed gas to keep me in the air for a while. For now, the controls were on my belt, operated by hand, but I had plans to hook it up to the same HUD control my shock wire operated on; an easy enough change.

Despite my discomfort with the system, though, it was easy enough to use, and I rose ahead of the others, up above the streetlights, where I'd be difficult to see from the ground.

Our target building fronted the street, with a small parking lot on one side and an alley on the other. Going in through the side would have been ideal, since it would draw less attention and leave a less obvious hole, but sadly the only windows were on the front and back, and the back half of the second floor was in use by some other company, apparently. So that left just one real option.

I flew toward the window with one hand on my belt controlling the flight, and with the other I drew my heat axe, activating it with a flick of my thumb. I headed straight for the nearest window and swiped at it, cutting it out of its frame with the sound of breaking glass and the smell of burnt wood. Then I kicked it inward and flew through the hole, landing on dull, grey carpet. The others followed without issue and dismounted their aluminum conveyance.

And just like that, we were in.

For my first real, serious crime, it was pretty easy. Admittedly, it was only breaking and entering so far, and the grand theft would come later. But still, I wasn't feeling the moral ambiguity I had expected. For the moment all I felt was nerves and anxiety.

"Sp- split up," I said, my voice catching slightly. "We're looking for cash, maybe up to ten thousand dollars. The contact wasn't certain where it was kept, but expect a safe or strongbox."

Nobody spoke as they got to work, maybe feeling the same tension I did. They moved to different parts of the office, each searching in their own way. I eyed Vasistha for a moment as she went to go sit at a desk and started pulling out drawers, examining them for a moment before dropping them on the ground, then moving on to another.

It would have been nice to have her do recon, find out where the money was kept, but that would have taken time we didn't have. For now we'd just have to make do on our own.

Rune, like Vasistha, was searching somewhat haphazardly, drawing runes on everything she passed, then flipping them over or floating them up into the air to inspect. She was quick, examining and dismissing everything in just a few seconds. Turismo was doing something similar, though without a power to help him. He just walked from desk to desk, flipping them over. I wanted to ask what he was doing – checking by weight, maybe, looking for a safe? – but we weren't there yet, and we really didn't have the time.

Chariot was searching in a way that was completely alien to me, sliding and skidding around the room with a spanner in his hands, tapping at the walls in some pattern I couldn't discern. Up till now his eccentricities hadn't failed me, and I saw no reason to start questioning them now.

For my part, I walked through the office and headed for an old wooden door. The office we were robbing wasn't a big one, and most of it just consisted of the single, large room we'd entered, full of desks, computers, and potted plants. There were only two doors, one of which led into the rest of the building, and the other of which was my goal.

I didn't bother to check if it was locked, just chopped through the handle with my axe, then depowered it and used it as a hook to pull the door open.

My jetpack's arms caught on the door as I tried to step through, and I shot a look over my shoulder, but nobody seemed to have noticed. I tried again, turning sideways a bit, and entered.

Inside it was pretty clearly a manager's office. It had a bulky, curved desk, plastered in detailed shapes and curves. Behind it sat a leather chair, likely tall enough that even Donnie's head wouldn't peek out over the rear. Bookshelves and filing cabinets lined the walls; a couple upholstered chairs – for visitors, I assumed – and a few paintings were arranged along the back wall. It was clearly designed to impress, but I'd seen better when I was five years old, and a simple mahogany desk and leather office chair didn't do anything for me.

I got to work right away, pulling the drawers out of the desk as Vasistha had, shooting each one a glance before tossing it to the carpet, then looking into the slot they'd come out of, looking for anything hidden. I didn't find anything, though my eyes did catch on a small revolver taped to the bottom of the desk. In a moment of no forethought, I grabbed the gun and shoved it into my belt, a small victory, but those were important now.

The bookshelves and filing cabinets weren't any better, only full of books and files, and the walls behind them were bare. The walls behind the paintings were equally unexciting.

 _Think! Where in an office like this would someone keep thousands of dollars in cash?_

It wasn't an easy question to answer, especially not on as tight a schedule as we were on. My thoughts once again turned to the gun. Was the business illegal? Under threat from a gang, maybe? In debt? Each would influence things, help determine where the money might be kept.

Unfortunately I couldn't bring any terribly clever ideas to mind. My most brilliant thought was 'under the carpet, maybe'.

I'd just moved to a corner to see if I could pull it up, though, when Chariot's voice rang out from the other room.

"I've got it!" he called, and I felt my heart rise into my throat in a combination of fear and relief.

I hurried back out to see him standing next to an unassuming patch of wall, with a section folded out to reveal a very old-looking safe door. Black, but smudged, and with flakes of paint peeling off to reveal rusted steel underneath.

"Rune, can you get it out of there?" I asked as she hurried over.

"No way, boss," she said. "I could shake it around a bit, but pulling it out? Nah."

I looked down at the axe in my hand. "I can burn through, but that might set the cash on fire, assuming it's loose in there."

"Well whatever you do, do it fast," Chariot said, rapping a knuckle against the safe. "Because we don't have long."

"That sounds like a good line to come in on!"

The voice was loud enough that it almost covered the sound of a door opening, and it definitely did send a shock of fear up my spine.

I spun toward the source, to see the other door had opened and someone was sauntering through. Someone in costume.

He was wearing armor that I could only think of as gladiator-themed, with a lion motif splashed across it. Shoulder pads, clawed gloves, shaped belt buckle, and most obviously, the leonine helmet.

I recognized him right away. Triumph. The leader of the Wards, the junior branch of the city's only government-sponsored hero team.

What his appearance meant was obvious, but for a moment my brain refused to process it. In that moment, Triumph cleared the door and three more figures entered behind him. A bulky, older teen in a red helmet and bodysuit with white and silver trim. Aegis. A girl clearly younger than Rune in a white and green costume with a skirt and visor. Vista. A tall figure in power armor, futuristic but clearly designed to evoke historical imagery. Gallant.

"Aw, bloody fucking Christ," Rune said.

"Classy," Vista said, screwing her mouth up in disgust. Her voice was just as young as her appearance, but that didn't at all reduce the dread I felt at seeing her. Young or not, I couldn't think of many heroes in the city I would want to fight less.

"Well, I haven't heard of most of you," Triumph said, coming to a stop with his hands on his hips, looking between us and grinning. "Introductions?"

Almost as one, Vasistha, Rune, Turismo, and Chariot looked toward me. That more than anything shocked me out of my frozen state, and I took a step forward.

"You can call me the Red Comet," I said, "and we're Solomon."

"Any relation to the Crimson Lighting?" Triumph asked. "I was always a fan of his."

"No," I said. "Though I'm a fan too."

"Well, at least your taste is good," Triumph replied, his grin growing. "And Solomon isn't exactly the most sinister name for a team. Any chance that, present company excepted"—he nodded to Rune— "you're all heroes, and there's a good reason for tearing apart all this innocent furniture?"

I looked around for a moment, barely more than a flick of my eyes. We really had torn the place up. Almost all the desks had been either flipped or pushed around, and a good number of chairs had been toppled, with the rest pushed to one corner of the room for some reason.

I looked back at Triumph. "If I say we're heroes, I don't suppose we can just shake hands and go our separate ways?"

"Sadly not," he replied. "One way or another I'll have to ask you to come to the PRT building with me. Just that if you're heroes we can hang out in the break room and eat some pizza, instead of you hanging out in the cells."

"Do we still get pizza in the cells?" Chariot asked. The words were joking, but there was no hiding the worry underneath them. It was a bit relieving. For a minute after Triumph had shown up I'd been worried that Chariot had sold us out. Of course, that was still a possibility, but I classed it as unlikely.

Triumph threw his head back and laughed. I'd never really heard anything I could have described better as 'peals'.

"Sure, why not?" he said. "You all agree to come in quietly and I'll even deliver it myself."

"I'm afraid that's not going to happen," I said. "And no, we aren't heroes."

"So you plan to resist?" Triumph asked, tilting his head to the side. "That's a shame. We were getting along so well."

In response I just flicked the switch on my axe, sending waves of red flowing down the blade.

"Guess that's as clear an answer as any," Triumph said. "Well then," he began, raising his voice. "Wards! Let's go!"

My gun snapped into my hand, rising toward Triumph, but I hesitated, my father's advice clashing with my desire to avoid serious harm, and the wasted time was costly. Vista raised her arms, hands spread, and the room seemed to stretch away from me, growing rapidly larger, the ceiling retracting away to give Aegis space to fly. And fly he did, soaring upward for a moment before descending, headed straight for me, fists-first.

I jumped to the side, planting a foot on a still-upright desk and kicking off it to gain more height, moving to meet him as much by instinct as anything.

He adjusted his flight path slightly, ignoring my axe and gun, not even attempting to dodge. It would have given me a perfect chance to hit him, maybe even cut off an arm, but again I hesitated. Aegis's power was more than just flight. He was strong, and more than tough, but his durability wasn't the kind that made him difficult to damage. It just meant he wouldn't die, and could ignore any wound.

But cutting off an arm? I wasn't sure how he'd respond to that, especially with the heated edge added to the mix. I could hit him with the back side, or the flat of the blade, but I couldn't imagine either would do much.

Again, my indecision cost me, and only my mask's mysterious effect prevented the cost from being catastrophic. Aegis barreled in, and I found myself turning in mid-air, just a sliver of an inch away from being hit, before ramming my elbow into the small of his back.

It hurt. My elbow wasn't armored, and the hit was pretty hard, but Aegis barely seemed to notice. He didn't go crashing into the ground, as I'd half-hoped he would. He barely even flinched. By the time I touched down again, shifting my feet to get better footing on the carpet, he was already turning toward me and coming in again. No hesitation. Zero acknowledgment of the hit.

I dodged another swing as he advanced, feet off the ground, using his flight to try to corner me. I responded by thrusting the blunt top of my axe into his face, bashing his nose with it. It bloodied him, what little of his face I could see through the visor of his helmet, but he paid that no more mind than he had my elbow, kicking off the ground and reaching out to grapple.

Again, I dodged by the skin of my teeth, this time planting a knee in his ribs as I went, before scrambling over a desk and around a chair, trying to get some separation.

He watched me go, then closed in again, arms held ready, but it gave me a moment to look around, take in the fight.

It wasn't going well.

Vista had expanded the size of the room to easily ten times its former dimensions, and now she was manipulating it, shrinking the distance to keep Gallant and Triumph in combat, or expanding it to keep Rune's projectiles away from her.

I knew her power only worked in areas free of people, but I'd thought it would be more restricted. As it stood, I couldn't see what we could do about her. She was too quick, pinching space to step away, then expanding it behind her, turning one step for her into fifty feet for anyone else.

Not that Vista was even the biggest problem. Triumph was moving after Turismo, running and jumping to get around the fistfuls of glittering dust thrown at him, moving like an athlete. He was laughing the whole while, clearly not trying too hard, and I had to worry what would happen if he did decide to get serious.

And that was all I got a chance to see before Aegis was on me again. I clenched my fist around the haft of my axe, then angrily sheathed it, moving my hands to the controls of my jetpack. I took to the air, moving as my instincts – mine or the mask's – told me, circling around Aegis, letting his strikes whiff and staying at his back, keeping myself in his blind spot as much as I could. It was all I could really do. It wasn't like I could actually hurt him.

Besides, even if Rune or Chariot could somehow beat Gallant, I didn't see us winning this. Which really left us only one choice, assuming we could manage it.

"Retreat!" I shouted. "Turismo, light the place up! Rune, make an exit!"

It was the same tactic I'd ordered in our first fight, and I had to hope it worked as well here as it had there, though I wasn't confident. Mostly due to Vista. If she could shrink the areas affected by Turismo's dust while also keeping Rune away from the windows, we were screwed. Which meant we needed to get to her, and of all of us I thought I was the only one with a chance.

So as everybody paused to take in my shout, both us and the Wards, I shot upward, then made a break toward Vista.

Aegis turned immediately, and I could _feel_ him closing the gap again, but I didn't have time to worry about it. I would only have an instant to deal with Vista, or even just tie her up long enough to let the others get away.

But another presence was closing in as well, faster than either of us.

Chariot.

He closed in on Aegis and took a running leap, his exoskeleton whirring and straining, giving him just enough height to tap the hero's chest before falling again. He rolled as he fell, slapping his hand against the floor once, sharply, before zipping away.

It was enough. Whatever it was Chariot had done – attached one of his mechanical bolas to him, probably – Aegis curved sharply downward, then faceplanted, hard. He sprung back up again, but he only had a moment in the air before being jerked backward, reeled in toward the spot on the carpet Chariot had smacked.

Which left me a clear run toward Vista, and she knew it just as clearly.

She raised her hands toward me, and I could feel the space between us expanding. But unlike her, I wasn't bound to the earth, and neither was my perception. I felt my mask flare with heat, barely below scorching, as I flew up, then down, riding the currents of shifting space as I closed in on her, just a fraction of a second ahead of every change.

Her eyes widened, and she stepped to the side, swinging her arms in a wide arc, but nothing happened, the space between us remaining constant. Static.

Then, out of nowhere, Gallant rammed into me, a full-body tackle. We tumbled to the ground together, rolled onto and over each other, and he swung at me clumsily, tried to grab me. I kicked him in the knee, both to keep him down and to stop my tumble, and used the momentum to rotate myself upright, getting my hand back on my belt to activate my jetpack.

Gallant didn't let me. He rolled to a stop and threw something at me, a wobbly sphere of blue energy too bright to look at, and I dropped, rolling away from it. Another followed, and another, in a steady rhythm. He threw with both hands, not stopping even while he clambered to his feet. They weren't all meant to hit. Some went to my sides, or above me, boxing me in, limiting my mobility.

He was good. Better than me. Even with my mask's power all I could do was keep the distance and avoid being hit. I didn't even have time to check on the others, see if they were making their exit or if they'd already been taken down by Triumph.

The thought of that sent a flare of anger up my chest. Damn it, they'd already stopped us getting the money, how much further did they have to go? Hell, we shouldn't have even been here in the first place. A smash-and-grab had been a bad idea from the start.

 _Fuck!_

Whether or not the others had made their exit, I still had one card to play. It wouldn't have worked on Aegis, but against Gallant it had a chance.

I took my arm off my belt and clenched my fist and pointing it at Gallant. He tensed up for a moment, raising his hands defensively, and I fired my grappling wire straight at him.

He saw it coming and side-stepped, but I twitched my arm and the articulated wire changed direction, hitting him in the shoulder and clamping down. He grabbed at it, but arcs of electricity flowed down the wire, and he tensed up, his armor seizing.

I twitched my arm again and the wire started to reel in, pulling Gallant off-balance and sending me flying toward him. We met in mid air, my foot lashing out in a kick. It caught Gallant in the sternum, sending him tumbling to the ground and tearing my grapple loose from his armor.

I caught myself with my jetpack and stabilized in the air, using my free arm to help my balance. Gallant groaned, rolling over to push himself to his feet, and I dropped down on him, planting my feet on his back and crushing him down into the carpet.

 _Now, where's—_

I stopped, my head whipping to the side. Triumph was closing in on me, and I couldn't see the rest of the team anywhere. Had they made it out? A gaping hole where one of the windows had been was good evidence that they had. I turned the other way to see Vista glaring at me, and I blanched at the sheer hate in the look.

Aegis was still caught in Chariot's bolo, so if the others had gone out the window, then chances were that Triumph couldn't have followed them. Which meant it was time for me to leave, too.

I spared a quick look at Gallant, stomping on his helmet once to keep him down, and took off straight up. I wove around Vista's altered space, side-slipped a roaring blast of sound from Triumph, and flipped over, heading for the windows.

Once again, Vista proved to be the greatest obstacle, and the windows began to shrink. I raised my gun toward her and let off a burst, the bullets following the warped space to impact on the carpet at her feet, drawing a shriek from her as she stumbled back, flinching, her arms raised reflexively.

It was enough. I soared out the window with space to spare, then took a hard right just ahead of a blast of light from Gallant. It lit up the street, casting everything in harsh light and shadows for a moment before it impacted the building across the way, bursting and fading away.

The van was gone, both thankfully and annoyingly. It meant that the others had escaped, but it also meant I had to get away on my own, and the jetpack didn't have that much compressed fuel.

Worse, my foot was throbbing, almost certainly from when I'd kicked Gallant's power armor with just a boot on.

I flew on, taking a route that kept me below the roofline as much as possible while still staying above the streetlights, and it took me a few moments to realize my phone was vibrating, and probably had been for a while.

I holstered my gun and fished it out of my pocket, careful not to drop it.

"Yeah?" I said.

"Boss!" Turismo said. "You alright? You get out?"

"I'm fine," I said. "I'm out."

"Well shit, good stuff," he said, voice calmer. "I was kinda afraid you were pulling some sacrificial shit or something."

"Not my plan," I said. I had to fight to get my breathing under control and keep my voice level.

"Uh, well good," Turismo said. "So, like, what now?"

"Now..."

Now I really had no idea what to do. I had no idea why the Wards had shown up. No idea if someone on the team had sold us out. I didn't think so. Triumph's words hadn't fit with that sort of thing. He'd been too... casual, really. I couldn't phrase it any better than that.

But still, the possibility had to be respected, at least until I could sort things out.

"Ditch the van," I said. "Someone may have seen us driving in, and one way or another the PRT will be here soon. You don't want to get caught on the road. Use Rune's power, get somewhere you can change out of your costumes, and get home. Avoid the Falmel for the next few days, or until you hear from me. Got it?"

"Uh, yeah, I got it," he said.

"Relay it to the others."

I listened carefully as he did so, paying as much attention as I could to his tone, and to their responses. It didn't tell me anything.

I winced as I hung up and returned the phone to my pocket. My shoulder hurt. From my trip with the wire, maybe?

"Damn it," I muttered.

I had too much to think about, too much to figure out, and I had no idea where to start. And we _still_ hadn't got any money.

A failed robbery. A lost fight. Problems in the team. No money. A walk home in costume with an injured foot.

Today had been a very, very bad day.

And tomorrow, I got to go to a gallery opening with my father...


	6. Stratosphere 1-IL

Open. Close. Open. Close. Open. Close.

With every flex, a new observation: the first joint on the index finger kept biting into his hand, there was a popping noise in the base of the middle and ring fingers, and the motor assistance on the wrist was lagging.

The gauntlet was in horrible shape, yet somehow it was the most intact piece of armor he had left.

With a sigh, Dean reached for a button on the back of his hand, near the base of his thumb, and held down. Three seconds later, a series of latches clicked open, and he tossed the piece of armor into a pile with the rest of it, a metallic ping heralding his accuracy.

It didn't take his powers for Dean to know that the news would piss off Armsmaster. He wouldn't be mad at Dean himself; they both knew that anything could happen when dealing with new capes, and Dean couldn't have known any better, but still. The armor was in bad shape. It had to be in working order by Monday, or Dean would have to find somebody else to take his shift.

Not that any of his teammates would be adverse to the idea of an extra patrol shift. Money aside, many of them wanted an excuse to do anything with their time other than be where they should be.

In that sense, he was lucky. For Missy, the Wards provided a much-needed escape from her home life. With Dennis' father unable to work, what little income Dennis brought in from the Wards was important. It was similar for the others. With Dean, though, he was there because he felt he should be. He wanted to be a hero, and for that his powers were a dream come true.

Now with his armor unable to occupy his time, Dean began a dance he knew all too well. Grabbing his laptop from his school bag and taking a seat on his bed, he logged in. Business first; his Wards email and then his school one. He'd checked earlier in the day, and he knew there wouldn't be anything important, but he checked again anyway.

His father had drilled the importance of email in the business world into him at a young age. The communication tool of the modern man; anything else would be time consuming, inconvenient or, God forbid, both.

Once he'd made sure that nothing important had come up, he switched over to the more menial side of the internet. Parahumans Online, Facebook, and Myx.

Myx was his preferred choice for news aggregation, as it allowed him to keep the eclectic scattershot that was his life all in one neat package. Cape news, business insider updates, and all the latest on tech and gadgets all in one place. A quick scroll through showed nothing interesting. A Protectorate leader out on the west coast had dropped a slur in an interview. Some minor villains had gotten their identities leaked in LA, which no doubt meant the Elite. Down in Kansas City, a member of Haven had been declared missing after not appearing in the public eye for weeks.

PHO similarly had nothing interesting to say, but it at least offered him a more targeted brand of nothing. Local cape news rarely ever held anything of substance. The handful of dedicated cape geeks in the city would latch onto anything from a new haircut to strange sounds in a seedy part of the city. The conversation was menial, but that attention to detail was what he needed.

After all, it wouldn't be the first time that the internet had learned about a new cape before the PRT.

Small chance, of course, but it happened.

His first hit was a wiki page. The Red Comet. There were no pictures, and unfortunately the page was devoid of any meaningful information. The brief entry only told him three things: he was the leader of a team of ambiguous size, he carried a fully automatic weapon, and he was a suspected Tinker.

 _All but confirmed after last night,_ he supposed.

The second cape, Turismo, had a bit more detail. He produced a translucent dust with a slew of effects ranging from starting fires to shutting down electronics. In hindsight, Dean decided it was a good thing that Triumph had been the one to fight him.

Not for the first time, he couldn't help but wonder where this information came from. The way he saw it, there were three options.

Option A was that the information came from an observer, a civilian watching a fight through their window or from across the street. Given the level of information on Turismo's power, that seemed unlikely. Civilian reports had the tendency to be very good at describing how a power looked, but rarely what it did.

Option B was that the cape in question had either created or edited their own entry, a way to keep ahead of the game and make sure that they could keep something in their back pocket for future fights. Again, Dean felt that this was unlikely. The entry on Turismo's power matched up too well with what Triumph had described after the fight.

And that left option C, that some victim or enemy cape had put the information out there, either looking to help out other people who went up against them, or to deliver one last spiteful 'fuck you' over an embarrassing defeat. Not an uncommon story, but it was telling. It meant Solomon had been operating under the PRT's noses for enough time to rack up at least some experience. That, combined with the presence of Rune, painted a picture that Dean wasn't sure how to interpret.

The team was discordant. A mess. With his power, it didn't take him long to see things like that. From there the question was why they existed in spite of the chaos. Was it the Comet, or was it an external factor? And if so, who? Dean didn't like being in the dark like that, but he also knew that he didn't have many options to do anything about it.

Besides, Dean didn't have too much time to think about it. He knew that he didn't have much time left till—

"It is: 6 o'clock. Get dressed Dean! Get dressed Dean! Get dre—"

"That's enough, Ora." Responding to his command, the digital assistant ceased its function. It was a good thing that his phone responded to voice commands, because he certainly didn't know where it was. Under the blankets, maybe.

Ora was a curious case, designed by Hero in 1999 to operate as a semi-intelligent pager. It had been expanded since then, and although more modern technology made Ora seem crude, at the time of his creation it was a different story. Of course, Ora had run into more issues than production feasibility. While Ora hit it off immediately with families and children, the intended audience of PRT troopers and Protectorate capes never took to him. 'Condescending' was a common complaint, 'annoying' another.

"Ora, any messages from Vicky?"

"You have: no new messages from 'Girlfriend'. You have: 4 unread messages from 'Tom Stansfield'." Dean could guess that second piece on his own. His father was a perfectionist, a trait that made him a dangerous business adversary, but left him lacking in the interpersonal department.

"Mark as read."

"Roger! Roger!"

"Thank you, Ora."

"Dean is welcome!"

That was – to Dean, at least – the big draw of Ora. Not the cutesy attitude, but the fact that Ora made everything simple. He would never find out that Ora wanted to sleep with him, or that the cutesy persona was a front to hide a genuine depression. Ora was simple. Other things... not so much.

He heard a hard, rapid knocking at his door, a small hand working extra hard to sound louder.

 _Speaking of not simple._

"Come in!" he called.

The door slid open to reveal Vista, still in costume.

"You said you had to leave by six," she said. "It's after six. So..."

Unlike his own costume, hers wasn't any worse for the fight. Her white and green armor, skirt, and visor were all pristine. There were other colors around her, though, floating in the air, forming a fuzzy aura that clung to her, just above her skin. His power, to see the emotions of the people around him.

As usual, hers were mostly a mix of pink and blue, infatuation and nervousness, pulsing and changing the longer she was around him. Right now the blue was overtaking the pink.

He gave her a smile. She returned it, and he didn't need to see the nervous relief in the expression or the way her posture relaxed to know what effect it had on her. The blue was overtaken by the pink, and a bit of a deeper red. Something he didn't really want to think about. Something far from simple.

Vista steeled herself for a moment, then stepped through the door, looking around.

"This place is a mess," she said. "Do you ever clean it?"

He shrugged. "Not if I can help it. It just gets messy again, anyway."

She huffed, walking over to a pile of clothes beside his hamper, picking them up and dropping them inside. "You never even sleep here. How does it get this bad?"

He shrugged again, looking around. He had to admit, his room was a mess. The bed was rumpled – despite not being used – with the blankets thrown around and a bunch of half-assembled electronics scattered over them. The floor was similar, but with clothes – both dirty and clean – mixed in. The garbage bin by the door was buried under a huge pile of empty takeout cartons, an avalanche waiting to happen. His desk was, if anything, worse, cluttered with paperwork, USB drives, CD cases, and no less than seven keyboards, just for a start.

Considering that he was one of the few Wards that never slept at the PRT building if he could help it, he did have to admit that it might be a bit... extreme.

He watched as Vista moved over to the pile of cartons, picking them up and slotting them together, moving efficiently. In under a minute she had the pile condensed enough that the entire thing fit in the bin. It was impressive, even if he could see by her aura that most of her attention was on him, rather than what she was doing.

"I suppose it is pretty bad," Dean said, spinning his chair around and standing up. He walked over to Vista, and took her hands, ignoring the way her cheeks and aura both flared pink as he did. "Thank you for looking out for me, but I do have to get going, which means I should probably change."

A bit more red in her aura as her eyes flicked over the skin-tight armored undersuit he was still wearing from his armor testing.

"Of course," she said, stepping back. He let her hands go, and she brought them together over her chest, clasping them together. "Sure."

He smiled at her again, the expression carefully crafted to show a mix of fondness and gentle amusement. It helped that the emotions were genuine. Complicated as it could be to deal with her, Vista was a wonderful person. The care she showed wasn't just because of infatuation. It was real, and the least he could do was respond in kind, show her the same consideration she showed him.

She took another step toward the door, then stopped, her aura changing again, a bit of darker blue blending into it.

"Dean..." she said.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"No," she said, shaking her head, once, sharply. "Not—not really, I guess."

"The fight?" he guessed.

She nodded, her mouth twisting into an unhappy frown, reflected in her aura. "Did I... mess up?"

It wasn't an easy question. While the fight couldn't really be called a loss – they'd prevented the robbery and driven away the villains – it wasn't a victory either. All of Solomon had gotten away, more or less clean. Worse, given that by all accounts the Wards had the better powers, it could be said that they _should_ have won.

"No," he said. "I don't want to look at it that way, and I don't think you should either. We were up against a new team, with unknown powers, and we still forced them to retreat. More, we got a lot of information. No matter what anyone else says, I'm calling that a win."

"It wasn't... my fault, then?" Vista asked.

Dean smiled again, with a bit more effort. Normally Vista was, if anything, a bit too gung-ho. Too eager to enter the fray and prove herself. The exception was, unsurprisingly, when she worked with him. Understandable, of course. She was still a thirteen-year-old girl, and she craved approval and validation. Her desire to be seen as mature and capable didn't let her seek it from anyone else, which left him.

"It wasn't even close to your fault," he said. "You did great. It's just bad luck that you were up against a thinker that could counter you." He reached down to rub his knee. "And, I mean, it's not like I did so great against him either. Whatever you want to say about the rest of Solomon, the Red Comet's the real deal."

Her frown stayed put, even as the worry in her aura retracted.

"If it really bothers you, maybe ask Aegis for some help with training. He's a tough flyer too, and he could throw some stuff to simulate the gun. I know he'd appreciate it. He's not too happy with how the fight went, either."

Her frown shifted, from unhappy to determined. "Right," she said. "I'll do that."

She turned without another word and marched away, her stride and her aura equally determined. It wasn't the optimal result, but hopefully it would help her feel better. If nothing else, the training would let her be more confident if they ended up going up against Solomon again.

"Okay," he muttered to himself, turning to survey his room. "I'm sure I left my pants around here somewhere..."

* * *

He pulled up in front of the Forsberg Gallery and hopped out, then tossed his keys to a valet, giving the guy a quick smile. There was a cold blue annoyance, coupled with the royal purple of indignation, but there wasn't any time for him to apologize, running as late as he was.

The Forsberg Gallery was lit up, the multiple spotlights attached to the building shining, moving patches of color all over it, as they did whenever there was an event going on. It was an effect that Dean had always liked. During the day the building still stood out, an ultra-modern construction of glass and steel, like a traditional office block that had parts of it pulled partway out or twisted at odd angles. But night was when it really shined.

It honestly reminded him a bit of his own armor. Something old, but with a very modern twist.

The foyer was as done-up as the exterior, with smaller spotlights, mirror-covered columns, and a marble-patterned floor. Long, colored-coded carpets lead to various doors and elevators.

A few security guards and attendants were hanging around, waiting to be useful, but he'd been to enough art openings and fundraisers not to need the help. He walked past them, with smiles and waves for familiar faces, each returned with as little enthusiasm as he put in.

A quick trip up and the elevator doors opened on a riot of colors not dissimilar to the ones crawling over the building's exterior. Seeing one person's emotions was easy, in a number of ways. Seeing hundreds, all at once, all together? Not so easy.

Having powers was great. There wasn't a doubt in his mind about that. But sometimes they came with... quirks.

He stepped out of the elevator, head tracking, trying to separate individual auras from the mass. It was always a bit of a trick at first. People's emotions were generally fairly similar. Much like a computer screen, the human mind had a limited range of colors and tones it could produce, and at a distance it all tended to blend together. At an art opening, there was the expected curiosity and anticipation, a bright sharp green that emanated from nearly everyone, forming a general background for the rest and mingling together until he couldn't tell how much was from any one person. He knew from experience that it would fade over the course of the night, eventually replaced with dull gray boredom.

Other colors were present as well, flashes and tides amidst the background expectation, flowing around as groups formed and broke apart, people affecting each other, spreading their own emotions through conversation or observation. Positive emotions for the most part, or at least ones Dean viewed as positive. Different shades of green, as attention was shifted, people interested in different things. Bubbling yellow humor, usually following a joke, tracked by laughter. Fluttering pink as younger – and some older – attendees flirted, or exchanged different kinds of jokes. Slower, deeper oranges as friends met and drifted off into their own worlds of conversation, impenetrable from the outside. More. Too much to parse it all.

Dean smiled, standing there and taking it in, barely even noticing the art scattered around the room.

 _Well, with fireworks like this, who needs it?_

Yes, having powers was great. No doubt in his mind.

"Son."

Dean blinked, looking toward the source of the voice, focusing something that definitely wasn't his eyes, looking past the colors that danced around the room.

It took a moment, but he made out a slender, narrow man with a sharp jaw, taller than himself. His thinning hair was dyed a dark color, a futile attempt to mask the onset of graying hair. He wore an old-fashioned set of tortoise shell glasses, and a brown suit jacket over a blue sweater.

Not fashionable by any stretch, but that wasn't the point. Tom Stansfield, never Thomas, preferred to stand out than fit in.

"Father," Dean said inclining his head slightly.

"Good that you're finally here," his father said, turning to observe the hall. No accusation or disappointment in his voice, but Dean still felt a twinge. "What do you see?"

"Not much yet," he said. "Everyone's still doing their due diligence, pretending to be here for the art—"

"More observation, less sarcasm."

"Sorry," Dean said. "Everyone's still admiring the artwork"—he noted a cloud of heavy yellow, near the buffet tables—"or eating. Or watching the room, like us."

"Hmm," his father said, then nodded to a patch of lighter green, streaked with orange and purple. "What about there? Max and Celia."

Dean focused for a moment, making out Max Anders and Celia Arno through the cloud of colors. Two of his father's biggest business rivals. They weren't in the exact same business, of course. Max was in pharmaceuticals and Celia ran Formula 90 Innovations, neither of which directly competed with V Operations, but they were still the three biggest companies in the city, and they were all focused on research and development. Despite their disparate fields, they butted heads more often than not.

"They're enjoying themselves," he said, before adding, "though Max seems satisfied, more so than usual anyhow."

"Worrying," his father said. "Suppose I should join them." He turned to Dean. "Your girlfriend's here. Suppose you should spend some time with her."

Dean's face lit up at that. "Victoria's here?"

"Somewhere," his father said, waving around vaguely. "Saw her come in with that Brandish woman."

"Carol," Dean corrected.

"Suppose so," his father said, but he was already walking away, hands in his pockets, threading through the crowd toward Max and Celia.

Not that Dean was about to complain. He was already headed into the gallery, on a different path from his father's.

He didn't hurry, though. After all, as much of a human spectacle as the art opening provided, it would be a shame to just ignore the actual art.

Adele Brodeur was, if he was remembering right, a French artist, though not a popular one until recently. She'd moved to the city... years ago, he couldn't remember exactly, when her parents had moved their company away from France's increasingly stifling laws. He'd met her a few times, though she'd been an adult when he was still a kid, so they hadn't spoken often. He knew she'd tried painting, and sculpting, and music, but never achieved much success.

So this time she'd combined all three. Statues with paintings on them, that played music on a loop.

It was the sort of thing that got attention, though probably not the kind that lasted. Original in that it hadn't been done before – that he knew of – but not really creative.

Though he had to admit, it was interesting, if only because each piece seemed designed to be tonally jarring. A sculpture of a deer with a city's skyline painted on it, playing classical music. A sculpture of a woman in a dress with a woodland scene and something kind of jazzy. A sculpture of a tree with something colorful and modern-looking painted on it, playing some pop music he vaguely remembered from years back.

The pieces probably had deeper meanings to them, of course. He was sure that later in the night, when they were auctioned off, Adele or someone else would explain them. And they would all sell, probably for good prices.

 _I really shouldn't be so cynical._

Something his father brought out in him, and something he was sure Vicky could help with.

He redirected himself, looking for her more actively. His eyes passed over people of all types. Businessmen and women in suits, all focused on each other; reporters with cameras, always hunting for a picture; socialites in dazzling fashion; regular people out for a taste of high society; even the occasional art lover.

And, of course, the children of all of the above.

He spotted Adele herself for a moment, in the middle of a group of reporters and well-wishers, the gallery owner beside her. She was smiling, talking and laughing, by all appearances totally confident. But her aura was a darting blue, with pulses of green throughout, surrounding a small ball of bright white. Worry and anxiety, mixed with anticipation, and a core of genuine joy.

He smiled to see the joy. That was good. If nothing else, she'd worked hard to get to this point, and she deserved to enjoy it.

Of course, he wasn't about to go over and talk to her. Another year or two and he'd have no choice, but for now he could still play Tom Stansfield's son, rather than his heir apparent.

Something caught his eye for a moment and he turned his head to catch it. A different aura to the rest. Dark green and brown. Dread and despair. That stood out enough, but it wasn't what drew his attention. The aura was... bigger than he was used to. Or maybe thicker. More real, almost close enough to touch, and solid enough that he could barely make out the blond hair and suit jacket of the aura's owner.

He hadn't seen that before.

"Dean!"

He turned and smiled, everything else forgotten as Vicky rushed over to him. She was wearing a white cocktail dress with a gold belt and bracelets, and a white purse was slung over her shoulder. She reached him faster than anyone in heels should have been able to and returned his smile, grinning as she brushed a curl of hair behind her ear.

"Hello, glorious," he said, holding out his hand to her.

"Such a gentleman," she replied, giving him her hand. He raised it to kiss, and her lips twitched, holding in laughter.

It wasn't a big thing, but they both enjoyed it, playing up the chivalry, taking it over the top. It helped that his costumed identity was what it was, as well as the fact that to the world he was a rich trust-fund baby dating the city's most beautiful super heroine. So in a way it was expected, but still a secret joke between them.

Did that make it ironic? Maybe post-ironic. He could never keep up.

"So, my handsome gentleman, what was it you were looking at just now?"

"Oh, nothing much," he said, then leaned in to whisper to her. "I just saw a strange aura around someone."

She blinked, her expression going serious as she searched his face. He smiled, to let her know it wasn't anything dangerous – or at least he thought is wasn't, the emotions hadn't been angry or violent – and she smiled back.

"Well then, should I be jealous?" she asked, her tone teasing as she took him by the arm and leaned in close. "You never compliment my aura like that," she whispered.

He smiled, a bit wry. She was in a mood, he could tell.

"You know I can't read your aura," he said. "But if you want me to call you strange, I can oblige."

She tossed her head, batting him in the face with her hair, but otherwise didn't dignify him with a response. Instead she tugged on his arm, leading him toward a bench near the edge of the room, well away from anyone that might overhear them. Not that the gallery's constant hubbub or the musical statues were all that conductive to eavesdropping in the first place.

"So, tell me about it," she said, leaning in close, still quiet.

"The aura?" he asked.

"No, dummy. Your fight. You fought some villains yesterday, right?"

"Ah," he said, glancing up at the ceiling. He should have guessed. The south end of the city was New Wave's beat, but it had been a long time since a new gang had shown up there.

"Are you jealous?" he asked. She frowned at him, and he leaned in to kiss her forehead. "Alright. I'll tell you everything I can."

Her face smoothed back into a smile. "You'd better," she said.

He nodded, thinking. "It's kind of weird, actually," he said. "The leader of the team also had a weird aura."

"The same kind?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. His was... spread out, reaching all over the place. The one today was just... intense. Compact, and very sad. I kind of wish I could have helped, but it's not like I could have explained how I knew."

"Want to try anyway?" Victoria asked.

"Maybe," he replied. "There's always the chance they're a new cape or something, and adding a new face to the roster couldn't hurt,"

"And because you just like helping people, right?"

He laughed. "Right, right, of course. Anyways, the fight. There were five of them, and they seemed fairly well organized. That's not the interesting bit though." He paused again, organizing his thoughts.

"Well, don't leave a girl hanging like that," Vicky said, leaning over to bump into him, impatient.

"Right," he said. "Well, the interesting thing about them is the team dynamics, I think. I already told you that they had Rune there, right?"

"Yeah. That new Nazi bitch."

Dean chuckled "Somehow, I don't think that's the language I used, but you aren't wrong. The catch, though, is that two of her teammates are black, and one of the other members – Turismo – seemed to share her opinions. Lots of bitterness from those two. I'm not sure, but I think one of them was even _happy_ when the black guy took a nasty hit."

"And I imagine their teammates aren't so hot on them, either?"

"The guy definitely isn't, that much is for sure. He didn't seem to care too much for any of his teammates though. The girl though… I dunno, she was like you."

"Smart, funny, and ridiculously attractive?"

"I was gonna say impossible to read, but if saying yes gets me a reward, then let's go with that."

Victoria laughed and leaned against him again, more gently this time, resting her head on his shoulder. The couple embraced, staying pressed against one another for several comfortable moments. However, something took Dean's attention away.

A fluttering aura, floating over the crowd. Person-shaped, but with no person inside. Like a floating yellow dress, riding the waves of emotion around it. It took Dean a moment to notice that the yellow of the spectre wasn't a shade of its emotion, but instead the color of its attire.

The ghost was a dark-skinned young girl, hair done up in twin buns. Dean could've sworn he recognized her, but he couldn't say from where.

Her eyes were trained on someone in the crowd, whoever – and for that matter whatever – she was, she was there looking for someone. Then, as though she knew she'd been spotted, she looked Dean dead in the eyes, and a startled look was all the warning he got before she vanished entirely.

Three abnormal auras in two days.

"What on Earth is going on?" he asked.


End file.
